


Doyle and Bodie - Bit by Bit

by Jaicen5



Category: The Professionals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:57:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaicen5/pseuds/Jaicen5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was left in Bodie's past.  Now he's in his present, and he'll use Doyle to get even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doyle and Bodie - Bit by Bit

_I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so  
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only_

  


 

**Prologue**

 

He stood just behind her as the train shunted slowly into the station. Her long blond hair whipped in the breeze and her hands closed protectively on the skinny shoulders of the small boy in front of her. She had once been beautiful, but now her face was frail and strained and sadness cloaked her slight figure. He felt, rather than heard the sigh that escaped, but whether it was regret or relief he couldn’t tell. Then she turned to him, tears in those big brown eyes, mascara smudging to run over the vivid bruise on her cheek.

“I wish…” She stopped helplessly and sniffed. “I just wish….”

“Ssh.” He stopped her words - pad of thumb gentle on damaged lips. “I know.”

Then her arms were around his neck, hugging fiercely before pulling back to whisper, “thank you.”

He nodded and looked gravely down at the small boy. From under the shock of wheat coloured hair, solemn blue eyes gazed back at him.

“Look after your mother.”

The child nodded just as gravely back and his small hand sought the battered woman’s, grasping it with a purpose that should have been unknown to his tender years. His mother wiped her eyes and steered him towards the nearest carriage. She didn’t look back. 

He waited until the train pulled out, noisily clattering along the rails, waited until it faded into the distance, before turning away. He tugged his uniform straight and left the station.

***

 

**Chapter 1**

 

The churchyard was ancient. Mossy tombstones leaned drunkenly among the yew trees, haphazardly marking the resting place of people long dead while a light drizzle fell from a gloomy sky. Fitting really, funerals never felt right in bright sunshine. Black clothed mourners gathered around a white frocked priest as he spilled his sermon over the newest inhabitant to this consecrated ground, the words a comfort to the bereaved only, as they in no way reflected the man lying inside the polished black coffin. 

Bodie jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the drips from the yew tree under which he stood, some distance away from the graveside. He idly wondered what Bambrick would make of a Catholic priest conducting his funeral. Bambrick who didn’t believe in any deity at all, regardless of what he’d been baptised. Bodie shook his head slightly. In that game you either stopped believing in God, or you started. 

Eyes moving restlessly, he noted others, as insubstantial as ghosts, standing well back among the trees and the stones, silent witnesses to this man’s passing. Alone - and his eyes flicked back as the coffin was lowered, taking its occupant to his final resting place – and yet not alone. 

_Amen_ , the priest turned to comfort the mourners while one by one, the figures among the trees faded away, disappeared and Bodie followed their example, trudging back through the crumbling graves to the carpark. 

He was unsurprised to see the slim figure leaning casually against the Capri, despite the drizzle. Doyle had waited then. He didn’t speak as Bodie tramped across the wet grass to open the passenger door, and for that Bodie was grateful, having no wish to open up the past; instead his partner merely slid behind the wheel and tilted his head enquiringly. Bodie shrugged slightly and stared out of the window, his face giving nothing away. Doyle waited a moment, watching the mourners appear slowly from the ancient tombstones, then put the car in gear and tooled quietly out of the car park.

Sharp eyes followed the car’s path as it merged into the busy street beyond the gates. An expensive camera replaced the eyes, protruding lens focusing, a final shot taken. Then a black Bedford van with tinted windows slid smoothly out of the car park and followed the Capri.

***

 

It was late, a full moon struggling to shine through wispy grey clouds and Bodie lifted his eyes from the binoculars to rub at them tiredly. Stretching, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder and smiled at the sight of his partner curled up like a kid on the too short sofa. Doyle’s breathing was deep, even, an arm flung out, fingers slightly curled. It was a sign of the trust – and Doyle did not trust easily - he had in his partner, to sleep so soundly while on an assignment and it never failed to touch Bodie. 

He bent again to the binoculars but the curtained windows of number 23 across the road remained dark and silent, no sign of the expected activity. Cowley had misjudged this one. He sighed softly, it was time to wake Doyle for his shift, but he made no move to do so. He hadn’t slept well since the funeral and was unlikely to do so, on that too short sofa. 

Leaving Doyle to his dreams, he stood and stretched once more before reaching for the lukewarm thermos of coffee. The temperature was dropping; he could feel it, creeping with ghost like fingers across his cheeks and neck, like mist over a gravestone, bringing with it unwanted memories of long ago. Thoughtfully he removed a blanket from where it was folded over a chair and considerately covered his partner with it. Doyle, as though sensing his presence stirred and shifted long denimed legs against the arm of the sofa, but didn’t waken. 

Bodie returned to the window and sipped his coffee. His eyes felt gritty, testament to his sleeplessness and he knew the cause. Bambrick lying cold in his grave. It bothered him. He’d never have thought the tough man could be killed by anything other than a hale of bullets in defence of Queen and country. He certainly didn’t think anything so ordinary as a drowning would achieve it, not when Bambrick was such an excellent swimmer, fluid as an otter underwater. He couldn’t get his head around it. Just goes to show, he thought morosely, when your time is up, it’s up. 

A career soldier, there weren’t many at his graveside, but Bodie had a feeling there’d be even less at his. He bent back to the binoculars, absorbing the night, listening to Doyle’s soft breathing, but his mind was many miles away and many years ago.

He was still sitting, watching the window at four when the morning shift arrived to relieve them. Doyle woke with a start, hand automatically scrabbling for his weapon before his brain caught up. Casting a disgusted eye at Jax and Anson’s noisy entrance, he swung both legs around and sat up scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“You didn’t wake me,” he accused.

Bodie shrugged. “You needed it, I didn’t.” 

Doyle gave him a look of concern but Bodie just shook his head. “I’m alright Doyle.”

“You look like you could use a good shag,” Anson remarked sourly, already puffing one of his noxious cigars to life.

“No thanks, if you’re offering,” Bodie retorted, but privately thought that Anson might have the right of it. A good shag with an uncomplicated bird might just be exactly what he needed. He’d look up his big black book when he got home and hustle up some horizontal exercise. Gently guiding a yawning Doyle towards the door he left Anson at the window and Jax complaining about the smoke.

Doyle drove through the dark sleepy streets, his jaw cracking and Bodie shook his head tolerantly. “Dunno why you’re yawning your head off, you got to sleep all night.”

“Feel like I slept on three bags of cement,” Doyle complained, squirming in the seat and sending the Capri into zigzags on the road. He righted the vehicle and leaned his elbow on the window sill, propping up his head. “You still thinking about that mate of yours?”

“Wasn’t a mate exactly,” Bodie evaded. “Just part of a team I was once on.”

“Yet you went to the funeral.” 

“We all did,” Bodie muttered. “Those of us that are left.”

Doyle wisely said no more until he pulled up at Bodie’s flat. “Get some sleep mate.”

Bodie nodded and slammed the door. Doyle didn’t linger, eager to get home himself and Bodie watched him depart while fumbling for his keys. As the Capri turned the corner, a dark van pulled out from a spot across the road and followed. Bodie paused in the act of inserting his key and frowned after the van. It wasn’t a vehicle he’d seen parked in his quiet street before, and generally only residents parked in the cul de sac. It looked… well it looked almost as if he’d pulled out to follow Doyle, and God knew his partner attracted trouble like metal to a magnet.

Then feeling slightly paranoid, he dismissed the incident from his mind. Imagining things. As tired as he was, an axe wielding maniac could materialise out of next doors wisteria and Bodie would be hard pressed to react. A sudden clatter to his right had him spinning on the spot, dropping the bag and reaching for his weapon, belying his earlier mockery of his tiredness. A plaintive miaow greeted this action and Bodie relaxed again. The cat was quite young, a grey tabby and not one that Bodie had seen before. 

“Go home,” he muttered under his breath, fatigue suddenly kicking in. Strange cats, strange cars, he really was losing it. Unlocking his door, he dealt with the alarms and dumped his gear, walking over to pour himself a large slug of scotch. A small regiment photo on the mantelpiece caught his eye and he raised his glass to it. “Rest easy Bambrick.”

Ten minutes later he was in bed.

 

***

 

The phone ringing jarred Bodie out of a nightmare and into wakefulness in a split second. His breath was harsh, his eyes wild as he stared around his bedroom looking for the unseen threat. The insistent bell of the phone finally penetrated and with a groan he reached across the bed for the handset. 

“Yeah?” He squinted at the bedside clock and rubbed a hand through his short dark hair. 

“The old man’s ailing.”

Doyle. Bodie cleared his throat and pushed the bedcovers down, away from his overheated skin. “We’ve got a pay rise?”

“No, not quite that unwell, but he did give us the night off.” 

Doyle sounded quite chipper and why not? He hadn’t been awake most of the night had he? Bodie flopped back down onto the pillows, and yawned. “Good, that means I can go back to bed.”

“Or…” Doyle continued persuasively. “We can have a bit of a night, Patty has this friend, a nurse, she’s doing something at the hospital with muscular complaints, gives a good massage so Patty says.”

Brightening, Bodie considered it. Hadn’t he been considering some horizontal exercise in an effort to relax and forget? Not a bad idea. “Ok, where?”

“The Merry Widow, say eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.” Bodie hung up and stood, stretching. The nightmare had faded and his naked skin felt cool again. He rummaged for clean clothes trying to recall what he’d been dreaming about, but it slipped away elusively and not one to dwell on meaningless pursuits, he dismissed it and padded off to the shower. 

Thirty minutes later he stood in front of his empty fridge and came to the conclusion that in the very likely event he had company for the night, he’d better get something in for breakfast. After a quick cup of coffee, he carefully set the alarms before stepping out his front door. A melancholic miaow greeted his exit and he turned his head, seeking its source. It was the same little tabby that he’d seen last night, looking forlornly up at him from a pair of bluish green eyes. Like Doyle’s he thought in some amusement and squatted down to cajole the kitten from its hiding place behind the hydrangea. The cat wasn’t charmed by him though - obviously a male cat - instead it flexed its back and retreated, staring at him piteously. Bodie stood up and exhaled softly. Why did people buy pets if they weren’t going to look after them? 

It was a nice afternoon, if considerably cool, summer an almost non existent event this year and he thought he’d walk to the local supermarket instead of driving and trying to find a car park. Casting a hazy golden light, the afternoon sun reflected annoyingly from the full length glass window of the local café, forcing him to shade his eyes as he crossed the road. 

It was the shout that alerted him, and the next minute there was a horn blasting, tyres squealing and Bodie instinctively threw himself forwards. He felt a whoosh of air behind him, something skinned, almost gently across his flank and tarmac and trees and the kerb all seemed upside down. Training automatically kicking in, he rolled expertly, ending up in a jarring crouch against a litter bin just as a black van came to a smoking halt. 

Initially no one moved, and then the man that had shouted the warning was in front of him, helping him up and Bodie was besieged by shoppers, hovering and murmuring their distress. He nodded at them and pushed their helping hands away, but by the time he’d extricated himself from their concern, the van had gone. Bodie exhaled in irritation and reassured the well meaning passer-by’s that he was indeed unhurt. 

“Lord Guv, I thought he’d had you. For a minute, I didn’t think he was going to stop.” The man who’d shouted the warning lingered, substantially more shocked than Bodie was himself.

“Thanks, but I’m alright. The glare was in my eyes.” Bodie dusted himself off and stared down the leafy street, but the van had vanished.

He carried on to the supermarket thoughtfully, recalling the similar van that had been parked in his street the night before. The one he’d imagined had followed Doyle home. Co-incidence? Maybe, maybe not. There were enough of them around London, although not so many in this area, Cowley having assigned him a flat in Fulham after that fiasco with Newton, an event which had made his last place uninhabitable to say the least. Bodie had been delighted, nothing like a classy flat in a classy area to pull the birds and not even Doyle’s acidic comment that it was only so he could practice putting on snobbish airs and graces, had diminished his pleasure.

The cat was still there when he returned; mewling in distress and Bodie could well imagine it keeping him awake all night, not to mention interrupting his planned massage. He carried his purchases inside and returned with a dish of milk, which he placed on the path by the doorstep. Sustenance worked where charm had failed and the cat was lapping at the bowl almost before he’d set it down. Bodie smiled at the tiny creature and stroked it gently.

Across the road, almost hidden behind a large catering van and a drooping willow, a camera clicked away, faithfully recording his movements until he stepped back into his flat and shut the door.

 

***

**Chapter 2**

 

Patty wasn’t Doyle’s usual type of bird but then who was? Bodie could never pick them, his partner’s taste in women being as eclectic and unpredictable as the man himself, but Doyle consistently pulled some stunners. This one had thick dark hair, a pair of spectacles perched on the cutest nose Bodie had ever seen on a woman and an admirable habit of going braless, which given her remarkable assets, was enough to stir any red blooded man to full attention. The only problem with that, Bodie mused, as she laughingly related a humorous incident from her day, it made it damn hard to concentrate on her face. 

That she was daft for Doyle was obvious, she’d barely taken her eyes off him all night and Bodie had more than once caught her fingers delving into his undone shirt buttons, as though she was raring to get him home and into bed. Doyle gave her lazy half smiles, eyes heavy with promise, but he was also monitoring his partner carefully in his usual unsubtle fashion, and in fact had been ever since the funeral. Trust Doyle. Bodie grinned fondly at him and leaned back in the secluded booth, content to divide his attention between Patty’s deep cleavage and Pamela’s lovely smile. He’d been more than happy with Pamela, a tall blond, nearly as tall as himself with blue eyes and an engaging dimple. 

“Ray says you’re specialising in muscles,” he remarked, raising a suggestive brow at her. She laughed and glanced at his biceps, plainly visible through the thin white shirt he was wearing.

“Yes, I’m doing research on how massage may help rejuvenate wasted muscles after prolonged inactivity.” Her eyes sparkled at the byplay. 

Bodie caught his lower lip between his teeth and tried to look serious. “I may have a muscle that fits your research.”

She raised her glass and looked at him over the lip. “Oh I doubt it.”

He glanced over to his partner. Patty had one hand tangled in Doyle’s curls, the other busy inside his shirt and she had buried her face into his neck. Doyle’s head was tilted giving her free access, eyes closed in pleasure, lips smiling slightly in wanton abandonment. 

Bodie rolled his eyes and held out his hand to Pamela. “Shall we leave before they get x rated?”

Doyle’s eyes half opened and gave him a very knowing look. With a last glance at Patty’s cleavage, he left them to it.

Bodie let himself into his flat a little after midnight, tugging his tie from his neck and shrugging out of his jacket. Making for the kitchen, he reached for the kettle and stood at the sink to fill it, yawning widely at his reflection in the window. 

It came out of the darkness with astonishing speed, tumbling end over end and Bodie jerked backwards, stumbling and falling as the glass shattered, large shards accompanying the missile as it thumped heavily to the floor. He lay sprawled on his backside staring at it for all of two stunned seconds before rolling quickly to his feet and making for the back door, snatching his gun from the sideboard on the way. It was locked, and Bodie swore as he fumbled for the keys and flicked the bolts, losing precious more time.

Wrenching the door open he ducked low and sprang into his small garden, eyes trying to adjust to the sudden darkness. Nothing. He made sure, checking the small shed and the walled entrance to the small lane behind. All was quiet, the neighbours windows closed up and dark. Standing still, he listened, but apart from the faint hum of traffic on the main road, there was nothing else to raise suspicion in the early hours of the morning. Nothing he could see or hear anyway.

Feeling horribly exposed against the lights from his flat, he quickly returned to the back door.

The tap was still running when he made his way back to the kitchen and he turned it off, glaring at the brick on the linoleum, adrenaline still surging. An ordinary house brick. His gaze lifted to his smashed kitchen window. Kids? Drunken teens more like. Couldn’t possibly be anything else. Or could it? 

Resignedly he lifted the phone and called Control to arrange an emergency replacement to his window, then abandoning the kettle he made for the drinks cabinet and poured a healthy slug of scotch instead.

 

***

“So you think it was just kids?”

“I dunno,” Bodie saw a finely drawn brow lift disbelievingly in his direction and shrugged irritably. “Well what else could it be?”

“Any number of things.”

“Come on mate, anyone connected with the job would have used a bullet not a brick,” Bodie leaned back to close his eyes, almost wishing he hadn’t told his partner, although Doyle would have found out soon enough at headquarters, the call for a glazier having been logged efficiently. “Just drunk kids out to prove how tough they are.”

Doyle didn’t look convinced and Bodie didn’t blame him, he wasn’t at all convinced himself. 

“You get any sleep?” Doyle steered the Capri easily through the afternoon traffic to the small anonymous building just off Whitehall. Bodie turned his head to look at his partner and lifted a hand, wobbling it to indicate so-so.

Doyle squinted at him before returning his attention to the traffic. He deftly cut around a mini driven by an elderly lady hunched over the wheel and said; “Why’s it got to you?”

Bodie didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Dunno mate… just…” he trailed off, staring sightlessly through the passenger window before inhaling heavily. “Last time I worked with him, things turned nasty. Maybe, it’s just brought it back to me.”

Doyle drove steadily for a minute before venturing with; “he leave a wife? Family?”

Bodie shook his head in the negative. “A sister I think, god knows where she is. Just leave it Doyle. I’m alright.”

Doyle glanced at him again, but Bodie deliberately didn’t look at his partner. Doyle cared too much, it was in his nature, but he couldn’t fix things that had been broken that long ago. No one could.

The traffic was heavy and Doyle was frowning at the rear vision mirror. Bodie picked up on it at once. “A tail?”

Doyle considered the mirror speculatively and then glanced across at his partner before shrugging his shoulders. “Not sure. I thought that van might have been following us, but he’s turned off.”

“Van?” Bodie twisted around in his seat and stared back through the rear window. “What colour?”

“Dark, black maybe, or dark blue.” Doyle looked at him and frowned, “What?”

“Nothing.

“Bodie…”

“It could be nothing, but there was one parked outside my flat the other night and one almost hit me the next day.”

Doyle gave him a long assessing look.

“ _Almost_ hit me Doyle, the sun was in my eyes. He probably just lives in the area.”

“Bricks through the window, vans trying to run you down? What have you done now?” Doyle’s tone was mocking and Bodie relaxed, glad his partner was taking it lightly. He had enough conundrums sabotaging his sleep without looking for more.

“Me? God Doyle you can talk.”

Doyle laughed and as it always did, it lifted Bodie’s spirits.

 

***

 

The photographs landed on the desk and Talbot waited nervously while the man picked them up and scanned them unhurriedly. He was a big bloke this one and hard, his face hard, his eyes hard and he didn’t look like he’d ever smiled in his life. Born and raised in South London, Alfie Talbot had done some dodgy jobs for some dodgy blokes, but this one took the cake and he wondered if perhaps the man wasn’t a bit mad.

“I still don’t know why you can’t just do him in,” he ventured diffidently, unwilling to raise the man’s ire. 

Blue eyes lifted from the photographs and roved over him slowly, like he was an insect. They were cold, those eyes and the thin lips thinned even more. “Because that will not hurt him. You came highly recommended. Do not make me regret hiring you. Just do what I tell you.”

Alfie Talbot _was_ good. Extremely good at being invisible and no one was as good as maintaining a tail as he was. This job had taken some time and effort to accurately pinpoint the target’s movements, where he lived, where he worked, where he went in his social hours, the vehicles he used. Stalking a man of his abilities was fraught with danger, particularly as this target was highly trained to notice a tail. 

One wrong move and the hunted would become the hunter and Talbot most certainly did not want that lethal ability coming after him. He resolved to choose the men he used carefully, men with no traceable ties to him should the balloon go up.

He retreated silently. He had his orders and he’d been well paid, although he wondered briefly whether the money was enough, despite the high price he set. 

 

***

 

Cowley was scowling at a piece of paper in his hands when the partners knocked on the door. He looked up and removed his glasses, recognition replacing his absorption. “Come in both of you.”

They walked in, Bodie standing upright in front of the desk, as was his habit, Doyle wandering over to lean against the filing cabinet. 

“No 23 is unoccupied,” Cowley said without greeting them. “Has been for six weeks, the owners are in Spain on holiday.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Doyle asked snarkily, the unusual cold summer having spoiled his plans to take some time off.

Cowley didn’t even glance at him, too accustomed to Doyle’s insubordination to take any notice. “The tip off was a hoax.”

Doyle became more alert. “Who?”

“Anonymous.” Cowley tossed the paper down on his desk and stared at it, shrewd face thoughtful. “But why? What was the point?”

“Something else going on someplace else?” Bodie guessed.

“If it took all of CI5’s resources, I would be inclined to agree Bodie,” Cowley tapped his glasses on his chin as he thought. “But it only tied up two men at any one time. You two, McCabe and Lucas and Jax and Anson before we found out.”

“Someone doing a bit of pay back then,” Bodie offered, not really caring why, but happy not to be back in that cold room again for another shift.

Cowley stared at him. “Pay back you say. For who though? You? Doyle? Me? CI5?” He picked up his glasses and replaced them on his face, gazing again at the information, neatly typed out on crisp white paper.

“Maybe.” He paused, lost in thought until he was aware of a slight fidgeting from one of his operatives. He waved them away. “Well there’s no point you two going back there tonight. I’ll see you back here for normal duties in the morning, aye?”

“Yes sir,” Bodie caught Doyle’s arm and almost dragged him from the room. Doyle followed reluctantly and Bodie knew his partner, knew the false tip off had raised Doyle’s inherent curiosity. 

But he wasn’t getting caught up in following a paper trail, not if they were off duty. He snagged Doyle’s arm more firmly and steered him down the corridor.

“Who do you think it was?”

“Never mind that now Doyle, lets get out of here before the old man changes his mind.” Bodie pushed his partner forcefully in the direction of the lift and Doyle laughed as they began to race. He caught hold of Bodie’s arm to delay him and Bodie shoved him, until they were wrestling at the lift doors. It abruptly opened to reveal the ravishing form of Betty, standing with a pile of files clasped to her very pert and upstanding breasts. She raised immaculate eyebrows coolly at them both and they broke apart, straightening clothes and grinning. Rolling her eyes she sidestepped around them. 

“Good evening boys.” She said demurely and moved efficiently down the corridor, both men turning to watch that lovely sway of her skirt until she turned the corner. 

Bodie bowed deeply and allowed Doyle to precede him into the lift. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Doyle stabbed the button for the ground floor. “Patty is cooking.”

“Is she? Food you mean?” Bodie had a good idea where Patty’s appetite was aimed.

Doyle gave him a tolerant look. “I hope so, I’m starving.”

“I’d say she’ll have you for desert mate.”

“Likely.” Doyle leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “Are you seeing Pamela again?”

Bodie shrugged. “Maybe, dunno. Not really my type.”

“You mean she didn’t come across?” Doyle crowed delightedly, just as the lift doors opened. 

Bodie swept majestically from the cubicle, refraining from answering.

 

***

 

The cat was still there, waiting expectantly by the hydrangea. Unaccountably touched, Bodie stroked the soft fur gently before unlocking the door. “Suppose you’re expecting another free feed?”

The cat’s plaintive cry told him he was correct. “I know, I know, just hold on a minute.”

When he returned with a dish of milk, night was creeping indistinctly down the street; the only sound the murmur of traffic on the main road beyond the park. The cat wound its way sensually around his legs and looked up with those slanted green blue eyes, once again giving Bodie an impression of his feisty partner. “If I call you Doyle and you turn out to be a girl, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Unsurprisingly, the cat didn’t answer and Bodie squatted for a few minutes, stroking its smooth back and watching the shadows smother the laurel bushes at the corner of the park. His eyes suddenly sharpened and he stood abruptly, giving the cat enough of a fright to leap and skitter away out of sight. The laurel bushes remained stationery, whatever had caused the shadow to shift, vanishing. For a minute there… he’d had the most unsettling feeling that someone was watching him. He waited a bit longer, but nothing moved so he picked up the near empty dish and retreated inside.

Immediately he crossed to the window in the darkened lounge room and peered inconspicuously out, patiently giving it a good five minutes. Nothing. He took a deep breath, wondering if his insomnia was making him delusional, jumping at shadows. He pulled at his bottom lip and for some reason pictured his partner, leaning against the doorjamb, grinning with the impudence only Doyle could get away with.

 _Hot milk and a warm bath mate, that’s the ticket_. 

How right you are sunshine, he mentally saluted his absent partner and began stripping off his clothes.

 

***

**Chapter 3**

 

Another sleepless night had him stumbling blindly through his morning routine on auto pilot, not feeling properly awake until he tooted the horn outside Doyle’s mews flat and sat, fingers tapping in time to Led Zeppelin, against the steering wheel. 

“Come on Doyle,” he muttered and yawning hugely, leaned out of the car to look up at the windows. The curtains were closed, no sign of life and certainly no sign of Doyle. Bodie tapped the hooter again trying to remember if Doyle had been planning on sleeping at Patty’s place and if so, why he hadn’t arranged for Bodie to pick him up there. Dismissing the thought the minute it popped into his head, he stared up at the silent building, knowing his partner would have phoned him, or used his RT the minute he’d woken and anyway, Doyle did not usually stay at a birds house when they had an early morning call. What the hell was he doing? The Bedford van from the other night flashed into his mind and Bodie immediately switched off the engine to alight from the car, drawing his Browning and clicking off the safety. 

Ignoring the intercom, he instead picked the locks, quickly and efficiently before taking the internal stairs silent as a ghost. The alarms weren’t set. He frowned at the panel and then heard a low moan that sounded like it came from the bedroom. Doyle’s voice. 

“Christ, stop!” accompanied by a faint slithering sound and then a crash, the sound of glass breaking. Bodie’s heart sped up. Weapon held ready, he cased the lounge room first, then the kitchen but there was no sign of a struggle, empty wine glasses were on the sink, the bottle nearby. Noiselessly he prowled down the short hallway and stopped by the entrance to Doyle’s bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and he took the Browning in both hands and pushed very gently, swinging it just enough to see through the narrow gap. 

He saw the bed, a jumbled wreck of bedclothes, the morning light diffusing the room into a warm golden glow. And he saw his partner, moving strongly, rhythmically, the long lines of his naked back damp and straining, his head buried in the shoulder of a girl, Patty, judging by the slim arms about him, and the dark hair across the pillow. 

Relief hit first, followed swiftly by amusement but then Bodie pulled back and scowled. A sure way to get your head blown off and it was unlike Doyle not to hear him. Then again, it went a long way to explaining Doyle’s exhausted state after an evening with the girl. She must be insatiable if they were still at it at…he glanced automatically at his watch and was astonished to see the hands pointing to a little after six. What time had he woken up? In his weary state, he hadn’t even looked, simply assumed that his normally reliable body clock had alarmed at the right time. 

A short sharp exhalation of breath jolted him back to the present and Patty’s voice; “God, harder, yes that’s it, you’re incredible,” and Bodie retreated with a rueful grin. He headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on, ignoring the lovemaking from the bedroom, brooding on his distracted state of mind, trying to pinpoint exactly what was causing his sleepless nights. Never mind Doyle getting his head blown off, he certainly wasn’t any better.

The shrill whistle of the kettle had Doyle speedily emerging, pulling up a hastily donned pair of jeans, scrubbing his hand through his curls.

“Sloppy that,” Bodie remarked, pouring scalding water into the teapot. “Could’ve been here to do you in.”

Doyle looked predictably snarky, dark smudges painting eyes that were nevertheless sharp as he regarded his partner, calmly making tea in his kitchen. “How long have you been here?”

Bodie closed the lid of the teapot and reached for the sugar. “Oh, long enough to make sure there wasn’t a real assassin about to put one in the back of your head, for all the notice you were taking.”

“A real assassin wouldn’t be making tea in my kitchen while waiting for me to finish,” Doyle retorted. He rubbed his eyes wearily. 

“Does that mean you haven’t?” Bodie asked innocently, “finished?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Curiosity,” Bodie wasn’t going to admit that he’d woken two hours before schedule. He lifted the milk bottle and took a healthy swig, swiping at the excess with his tongue. “Just wondering what she does, that has you looking like a porn star at the end of a ten day shoot. Tea?”

Doyle’s hard look had him grinning in delight. He held out the cups and Doyle, without another word took them both and headed back to the bedroom, undone jeans sliding dangerously down slim hips. Bodie watched him go until the door slammed pointedly, then shaking his head at his own daftness settled himself comfortably in an armchair with yesterdays newspaper. 

Doyle kept him waiting for another two hours.

***

 

“So what’s the secret Doyle?” Bodie stretched the kinks out of his spine and turned to the thermos of coffee. “What does she do?”

Doyle ignored him. Bodie poured coffee, feeling restless, as though something big was about to happen, yet this observation was as dull as ditchwater. “I mean does she swing from chandeliers? Does she tie you down with leather handcuffs?”

A baleful green blue eye glared at him, before dropping back down to the binoculars. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Know what I think?”

The head stayed bent, concentrating on their assignment.

“Oh, go on Doyle,” Bodie pleaded.

Doyle lifted his head again and looked resignedly at his partner. “All right, what do you think?”

“I think she’s the KGB’s newest weapon,” Bodie confided conspiratorially, “Total incapacitation by too much sex.”

“Shut it you,” Doyle wriggled his shoulders settling his holster and in an attempt to cool down, lifted his hair from the back of his neck revealing several bite marks. Bodie smirked. His partner should have worn a collared shirt to cover up the girl’s enthusiasm, especially if he was going to sit without his jacket on. As it was his faded t-shirt looked damp and rumpled. 

The flat, from where they were conducting their surveillance, bordered the edge of the council owned estate and was owned by an elderly man who felt the cold considerably. Accordingly, the central heating was set on high, obligingly discharging heat at a far warmer temperature than the weather warranted, and they were both feeling overheated. 

Bodie walked over to look out of the window, but the rundown council flat on the opposite side of the road was deserted. And had been for three days. He glanced at his partner. “Reckon this is another one of those dud tips.”

“Reckon you’re right.” Doyle lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes.

Bodie reached for the RT. “What’ll we tell the old man?”

“Why don’t you tell him about the KGB angle?”

Bodie grinned at his partner’s irritability and switched on the RT.

 

***

**Chapter 4**

 

George Cowley thoughtfully paced up and down by the window absorbing their report. Bodie watched him, although part of his attention was on his sleepy partner who was propping up the filing cabinet with one elbow, head cradled in one palm, eyes closed. Hilarious if you thought about it. One of them couldn’t sleep, the other couldn’t stay awake. 

“Someone is setting us up,” Cowley announced finally, jerking Doyle from his forty winks. “I think it’s time we found out who. And why.”

“Could be anyone.” Bodie protested.

“Aye it could.” Cowley agreed, casting an eye to Doyle, noting his condition. “But all we need is a word in the right ear. Are you all right Doyle?”

Doyle yawned and nodded.

“He was working too hard last night,” Bodie slid a sly look at his partner.

Cowley disregarded their by-play, pondering the problem at hand. “Six calls in the last fortnight, all anonymous, all wasting out time. Someone is drawing us out, drawing out my men, putting them where they want them. But who? And why? What can be gained by staring at an empty house?” He wandered back to his desk and stared at the paperwork coating its surface before bringing his gaze sharply back to his men. “Who do we know that would object to being closed down?”

“Patrick O’Malley,” Doyle yawned again and Cowley frowned at him. “He’s got a finger in every pie in London.”

“Well find a way to get him on board, man,” Cowley ordered and pulled out his chair as both operatives turned to leave. “Oh and Doyle?”

The lithe figure turned, expressive eyes questioning.

“When next you go to bed, try sleeping.”

 

***

“32.”

Terry Gordon was a worried man. Ironic, considering how pleased he’d been feeling with himself just an hour before. Fencing an amount of copper piping, which netted a considerable sum, beating Smithy at poker, which added to the coffers and then blowing the lot on Trudy at the widely known Blue Haven. Ah but she had been worth it. A real contortionist, Trudy. He’d been leaning against a wall in a dirty backstreet outside the brothel, inhaling a post coital cigarette when they’d arrived.

“Now that looks like a man, that’s been more than adequately serviced.”

Gordon had frozen in the act of shaking out the match. No, it couldn’t be. He’d turned his head slowly sideways to meet a pair of sardonic greenish blue eyes under an abundance of tousled curls.

“Christ Almighty.”

“No,” the street smart voice sounded amused. “Just me.”

Gordon opened his mouth indignantly and then gave a yelp as the forgotten match burned down to his fingers. Flicking his scorched digits against the pain he gaped worriedly at Doyle. “Thought we agreed I’d quit.”

“So you should too,” another voice put in and Gordon had groaned in despair. One of them was bad enough, but two… Dark blue eyes had gazed superiorly down at him, then brushed fastidiously at his jacket sleeve. “Bad for your health, smoking.”

“34.”

Now he sat in the back of a late model Rover, listening to a set of incomprehensible numbers that meant absolutely nothing to him and for some reason had him in a state of slight panic.

“Nah, more like 36.”

Neither operative paid any attention to him, instead they watched the street and the passer-by’s, alert and sharp as ever.

“That’s being generous.”

“Well I’m a generous sort of guy.”

“Bet the girls would disagree.”

“What do you blokes want?” Gordon felt sweat break out across his face, despite the weather being slightly cool. Their nonsensical conversation was getting on his nerves.

Doyle turned his curly head, mischievous face regarding him. “We? We don’t want anything. Do we Bodie?”

Bodie didn’t turn around, just kept his gaze studiously on the street. “No. And if we did, it wouldn’t be you Terry, would it?”

Gordon was perplexed. It was like they were waiting for something, or someone. 

“33.”

“33?”

“Well it’s not quite 32 and it’s not quite 34. What else would you call it?”

The car door opened suddenly and a man got in next to him. Terry Gordon had never seen this man before, but he immediately realised that he meant business. Shrewd grey blue eyes looked him over carefully and a small predatory smile touched his mouth. 

“Doyle tells me you have good contacts, Mr Gordon.”

“I quit. I don’t do no informing any more. Told Mr Doyle that.”

Doyle turned his head slightly to acknowledge the newcomer and Gordon swallowed at the look on the tough agent’s face.

“Aye, so I heard. But we have a slight problem you see, Mr Gordon, and we’d like to clear it up.” The man spoke almost kindly and Gordon stared at him in bewilderment. “CI5 are receiving some crank calls, false tip offs and we aren’t happy with that. Are we lads?”

“Nope.” Bodie drawled lazily and flicked an eyebrow in his direction. “Waste of our time, that is.”

“And we’d like it to stop,” Cowley went on in that deceptively calm manner. “You understand?”

“I don’t know who’s doing it,” Gordon protested quickly. “Could be anyone.” 

“Aye it could. But you’ll spread the word anyway won’t you? Or I might have to come down hard on…certain organisations. Like Patrick O’Malley for instance. You know O’Malley don’t you? Work for him quite often, according to our sources. He won’t like that, so perhaps he’d like to find the culprit and save us the bother.”

With that he got out of the car and checking the street for traffic, crossed unhurriedly to the newsagents opposite. Terry Gordon sat, dazed by the speed of events.

“34.”

“Yeah I’ll give you that one.”

“Surprised after squeaking the floorboards with Miss Nymphomaniac, you’d even notice.”

“Course I notice. Notice them all.”

Gordon finally realised he’d been dismissed, and scrabbled for the door handle to escape. An attractive blond in an extremely low cut blouse was passing close to the vehicle, forcing him to wait until it was clear and he distinctly heard both operatives say at the same time: “38. Double D.”

Terry Gordon fled.

 

***

 

After dropping Cowley off at a Ministry meeting and picking up Doyle’s gold Capri, the partners made their way to Soho, edging into a small cluttered lane off Gerrard Street where overflowing bins very nearly covered the peeling paint of a door set into a haphazardly constructed lean-to attached to the back of a large dull grey building. Doyle rapped his knuckles on the rotting wood, while Bodie stood back, fastidiously away from the stench of the rubbish. Eventually the door opened outwards a crack and a small pair of black eyes peered out.

“Come on Lee, I haven’t got all day.” Doyle complained, stepping back to allow the door to open as far as it could go. 

The small face gave a flicker of resignation and beckoned them in. Both agents had to duck in order not to knock their heads on the lintel and Bodie sniffed disdainfully at the odours of cabbage and rice cooking from a small dirty kitchen.

“What you want?” Lee went back to stirring the pot on the cooker.

“You know anything about false tips being phoned in to CI5?” Doyle asked directly, peering over the little Chinaman’s shoulder and wrinkling his nose at what he saw.

The grey streaked pigtail shook furiously. “No, nothing like that here.”

Doyle was silent, waiting until the small wrinkled face looked warily up at him.

“What about some vendetta against my partner here?”

Startled, Bodie glanced at him, having no idea that Doyle’s train of thought had headed in this direction, had so accurately followed his own. Although he should have done, after all Doyle’s protective streak very nearly matched his own. 

Lee shot a condescending glance in Bodie’s direction and shook his head again. “No. No one here. You try maybe the Greeks, try Apostolakis.”

Doyle frowned at the little oriental and Bodie witnessed his partner’s mercurial mood change from good natured to downright dangerous, fascinated at how intimidating his slim partner could be, when he put his mind to it. 

“I will,” Doyle told Lee in a hard voice. “And I’ll be back here if I don’t get some answers. With the police. You won’t like that, Lee. So you get your boys out there and find out for me, _shi de_?”

The hand stirring the pot paused and then resumed and Doyle was satisfied. He tilted his head to Bodie and led the way back to the small door leading to the lane.

“You’ve got such a way with words,” Bodie told him admiringly as he pulled the door to open it. The door didn’t budge.

“Push Bodie,” Doyle said, amused.

“Bloody Chinese,” Bodie grumbled, “Don’t they know that doors are supposed to open inwards?”

“Not when they tack illegal rooms on to the back of their shops,” Doyle said. “Be grateful it opens at all.”

“I’d be grateful, if it at least opened all the way,” Bodie retorted, pushing the rotten door with some force and sliding his body through the gap.

The attack came quite unexpectedly. Men appearing from nowhere rushed Bodie as he emerged into the lane, slamming the door on Doyle before he could follow. Doyle immediately grabbed the handle and pushed, left hand reaching for his gun, but the door didn’t budge. Barricaded somehow from the outside.

“Bodie!” Doyle slammed his shoulder to the door; it wobbled a bit, but didn’t open. He slammed again and again, and suddenly it burst open, nearly spilling him to his knees. Rushing out, gun in fist, he was too late to do anything other than catch sight of some black haired youths disappearing around the corner into Gerrard Street. Considering their head start, they’d be long gone by the time he got to the intersection, so he ignored them in favour of his partner. 

Bodie was slumped against the car, holding his stomach and dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand. Doyle crossed to him immediately. 

“I’m all right,” Bodie managed and sniffed, straightening up. “Just a few bruises.”

“What the hell did they want?” Doyle took his arm, as Bodie winced, exploring ribs carefully. 

“God knows,” Bodie said darkly. “We didn’t exchange pleasantries.”

“They deliberately went after you.” 

“I just came out of the door first that’s all,” he said reasonably. “Could have been either one of us.”

“That’s crap Bodie and you know it,” Doyle shouted. 

“Maybe,” Bodie allowed, recognising his partners sudden burst of temper as concern and anger. “But we don’t know for sure, do we Doyle? Could be just a local gang, throwing their weight around, letting us know they aren’t scared of authority. Could be no connection at all.”

He straightened up, gaze focusing past Doyle’s shoulders to the exit into Gerrard Street just in time to see a black van gliding out of view.

Attuned to him as always, Doyle turned, weapon coming up. “What?”

Bodie looked at him, at his tense posture ready for action.

“Just a little déjà vu.”

“Let me guess,” Doyle snarled caustically. “The black van? Not connected huh?” 

Bodie winced, knowing full well that being hurt was the best way to distract his partner’s fury. It worked admirably. 

“Do you need a hospital?”

Bodie shook his head. “Gave them just as much back. I’m all right mate. Let’s just get out of here and get on with the job.”

For a minute he thought Doyle was going to argue, and by the look of him knew his team mate would relish their attackers return. But then Doyle’s common sense prevailed and instead he unlocked the passenger door, allowing Bodie to get in. 

He didn’t bother grilling Lee about the attack, they both knew the little Chinese man would deny all knowledge of it.

They made contact with several more grasses and a few of the higher up lords of London’s crime element, before calling it a day. The news hadn’t been promising, no one giving anything away, which wasn’t surprising but if the threat of CI5 didn’t get them off their arses to find the culprit, then nothing much else would. 

The traffic had been abysmal along the ring road and both agents were fed up by the time they arrived back at Bodies upper class pad. Doyle invited himself in for a drink on the pretence of being out of supplies at home, but Bodie wasn’t fooled. His partner wasn’t an idiot by any stretch of the imagination, and Bodie could almost hear his thoughts clicking over at their usual phenomenal pace, assimilating the events of the last few days, looking for a bloody argument if he knew Doyle. 

Doyle also knew there _was_ more to Bodie’s restless nights than the death of a former SAS colleague. And he was spot on, Bodie admitted, finally realising that there was something about Bambrick’s death that was bothering him, invading his dreams. Only he hadn’t yet figured out what. 

Unwilling to dredge up the past, not even to settle his partner’s insatiable curiosity, Bodie searched for a defence to the interrogation he knew was coming. 

Doyle paused at the doorstep and glanced down. “Hello, what’s this then?”

Bodie followed his gaze. “That’s my new guard cat. Vicious he is. I’d watch it if I were you.”

“Pretty.” Doyle bent down and held out his hand. The tabby immediately approached and rubbed its small head against Doyle’s long fingers. Bodie snorted. He’d been dead wrong. The cat was definitely a female.

“How long have you had it?”

“Haven’t had it,” Bodie defended, unlocking the door. “Not my cat, but it won’t shut up unless I give it milk.”

“Ah,” Doyle smiled and stood up while Bodie dealt with the alarms. “Well, you may think it isn’t yours mate, but I’d say it feels differently about that.”

Bodie shrugged, but had to concede that he didn’t mind the large eyes gazing hopefully at him, no matter what time he returned. Sort of like a welcome home, albeit a prickly one.

Doyle made for the drinks cabinet. “Are you ok to still take Pamela out?”

“Of course.” Bodie switched on the kitchen light and removed his jacket and holster, testing his ribs with his right hand. “Thought we’d try that new Italian place in Knightsbridge, the one that opened last month.”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” Doyle poured scotch into two glasses and paused looking out of the window, his mind clearly not on Pamela or Italian restaurants. “How are you sleeping now?”

Here it comes, Bodie thought resignedly. He eyed Doyle over the glass. His partner looked as tired as he did, all rumpled denim and wild hair and thin, as if he’d lost weight. He snorted in amusement. Shagged out.

“How are _you_ sleeping now?” he countered, earning him a grin, a Doyle special, that warmed him to the heart, despite the fact that it was a prelude to further questions.

“It’s more than just him getting killed.”

Bodie sighed, unsurprised by Doyle intuition. “Yeah, but it was a long time ago Ray, over and done with. I’m fine. You can leave off the Mother Hen act now.”

“Then what about the last few days, mate? A van nearly running you down, a brick through the window. That attack today.”

Bodie looked at him uneasily. “I know what you’re thinking Ray. But you’re wrong. If someone wanted me dead, they’d use a gun.”

Doyle didn’t look at all convinced. “Then someone is trying to scare you.”

“Well they’re not doing a very good job of it, are they?” Bodie sank down on the settee and propped his foot on the coffee table, refusing to take it seriously. “Come on Doyle. The van was pure accident. I walked out in front of him. The brick? Well kids will do things like that, daring each other on. And this isn’t the first time we’ve been attacked for no reason when going into a grass’s territory.”

His partner took another sip of the scotch and turned slightly, hand on hip, eyes speculative, probing. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because all he said was, “I’ll pick you up early? Seven do? Don’t want to be late for the Ambassador.”

“I’ll be ready,” Bodie scoffed, “but you may want to skip your date with Patty if you want to be awake in the morning.”

Doyle downed the scotch and headed for the door. “Don’t worry. Not seeing Patty tonight, seeing Irene instead.”

He was gone, to the accompaniment of a demanding miaow.

 

***

 

**Chapter 5**

Pamela was indeed good at massage. She was good at other things too and Bodie felt pleasantly relaxed as he unlocked his door six hours later. He might even get a decent night’s sleep. The lamplike eyes of the cat were not in its usual place beneath the shrubbery and Bodie caught himself glancing about for the animal. Having no idea where the cat had come from or what it did when it wasn’t mewling outside his door, he found that he quite missed the dubious welcome whenever he came home. Stepping over the threshold, his foot skidded on something lying in wait on the doormat, provoking a low curse as he regained his balance. Flicking on the hall light, he glanced down to see a large plain envelope, no markings, no writing.

It flopped easily, when he scooped it up, indicating nothing untoward lay concealed within and he closed the door, resetting the alarms before entering the kitchen. He looked at the envelope while he removed his dinner jacket, feeling a sudden sense of unease. Taking a knife from the drawer, he inserted the tip and sliced open the end, careful not to handle it any more than necessary. 

Photographs. Large, black and white, there were five of them. All showed him crouched on his doorstep with the cat. The last one was a close up of the grey tabby; arching under his scratching fingers. Ripping the envelope open he searched for a note, some explanation for their existence but there was nothing there. Baffled he stared at the photos. As disturbing as it was to be photographed without his knowledge, far more disturbing was the fact that the same someone knew where he lived. 

Automatically he glanced at the phone, but thought better of it. Waking – or, more likely interrupting Doyle – wouldn’t accomplish anything, save perhaps a bad tempered partner. Certainly not the identity of the photographer. He stared at the photos again, searching his memory for something to warrant such an action, but nothing came immediately to mind. Gathering up the prints, he tapped them into a neat pile before reaching for the scotch, conceding sourly that his chances of a good night sleep had just been shot to hell.

 

***

 

It was a dismal morning. Doyle drove, for once looking alert and not yawning, although Bodie couldn’t say the same about himself.

“Maybe someone doesn’t like cats.”

“More like someone doesn’t like me.” Bodie muttered darkly.

“You’ll have to tell Cowley.”

“They were just pictures Doyle.”

“Yeah, of where you live. I mean, what’ll it be next? A box of chocolates with some wires attached.”

“I don’t get it.” Bodie ignored Doyle’s warning. “Why would anyone take pictures of me? And then stick them under the door without any explanation.”

“You can just add it to all the other unconnected stunts over the last few days.”

He glanced across at that sarcastic statement, recognising that Doyle was concerned and angry. “Why are you so bright eyed anyway, you’ve been walking around like a stag after rutting season for the last fortnight.”

“I don’t like it. You’ll have to move.” The fact that Doyle didn’t bite at his teasing increased Bodie’s uneasiness.

“You’re joking. I’ve just moved there, and the Cow won’t reallocate me for a set of photographs, mate.”

Doyle took his eyes off the road and gave him a level look. “Bodie.”

“All right all right, I’ll mention it to Cowley. Can you step on it now?”

Considering his partner was already driving competently over the speed limit, it was a redundant request, but obligingly Doyle put his foot down.

 

***

 

Escorting a visiting Israeli dignitary to his meetings wasn’t their idea of an ideal assignment, but Bodie was tired enough by the end of the day to be glad it was nothing more strenuous. Doyle drove, slim hands turning the wheel in his usual competent manner and Bodie found himself dozing as they battled the traffic on Bayswater Road. His mind wandered with the purr of the engine, hearing instead, the purr of a boat motor, sails flapping against the breeze, Bambrick swimming like a fish during that op on Lake Constance, Bambrick drowning. 

The car pulling to an abrupt halt outside his flat jerked Bodie awake and he looked around dazed. Doyle’s attention was on the front step and Bodie sensed him stiffen, saw his hands tighten on the wheel.

“What?” Following his partner’s gaze, Bodie saw what Doyle had and was instantly out of the car, thoughts of Bambrick blasted away. He was aware of Doyle, close by his shoulder as he crouched down over the doormat, staring at the soft grey fur, the tiny frame and the small head lying at an unnatural angle. Sadness and impotent anger warred for dominance as he gently turned the kitten over. He looked up at Doyle and saw his face set in an expression of outrage; one Bodie was all too familiar with.

“Well,” he said and his voice was calm, emotionless for all his inner turmoil. “I guess they didn’t like cats.”

 

***

 

The photos spread out on the desk, the same as before and Talbot apprehensively waited while the gloved fingers gently pushed them this way and that.

“This is his woman?”

“It’s the only one I’ve seen him with,” Talbot responded nervously. “He went home with her, at least.”

“That would mean nothing to him,” the voice replied coldly. 

“Well, she’s the only one I’ve seen, the whole time I’ve been watching him.” Talbot wiped his palms down his trousers, wishing he could end this deal now. It was too complicated. Too risky as well. The target was no pushover and the more they stalked him, the more he would be on his guard.

“You have her address?”

“Right here.”

When Talbot left, the man looked at the pictures again. Blonde, tall, lovely. His taste hadn’t changed over the years, it seemed. He tapped the photos back into a pile and reached for a plain envelope.

 

***

 

“I don’t like this Bodie. You aren’t seriously telling me this is just another unrelated accident?”

“You were just right the first time. Probably just a nutter who hates cats,” Bodie braced against the window as Doyle took a sharp right turn, dropping abruptly into second gear. “Bloody thing was probably keeping him awake all night. Saw me feeding it and thought it was mine.”

Doyle shot him a searching glance before swinging his eyes back to the road. “Then why didn’t he ask you to keep it inside? Why the photos?”

“Look, I dunno,” Bodie held on to the dashboard as Doyle took another corner at top speed. They’d been arguing all morning, Doyle’s sixth sense insisting something was wrong and Bodie trying to head him off. “Just feel a bit daft telling the Cow that a dead cat is some sort of warning, you know?”

Doyle snorted and took the next corner, tyres squealing, the Capri leaning at a dangerous angle. “Well all right. But only…” he paused dramatically and held up a finger warningly, “only if you promise to tell him if anything else weird happens. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bodie replied happily and relaxed back in the seat, content to leave it go for the moment. They were racing the clock, but he had every confidence in his partner’s driving ability to get them to their destination on time.

Three more corners and Doyle screeched to halt outside Tarquin’s Bar and Bistro. Bodie glanced at his watch. Made it with four minutes to spare. He followed Doyle into the dim interior; the stale smells of cigarette smoke and spilled beer not quite enough to disguise the mouth watering aroma of barbequed steak.

“Just made it lads,” the barmaid said leaning over the counter and looking cheerily at them both. “Special of the day closes in three minutes. Just the two steaks then?”

“Please,” Bodie handed over a five pound note, “and a couple of lagers too, love.”

 

***

**Chapter 6**

 

Friday finally came and for a change, they had the weekend rostered off. As an added bonus summer decided to cooperate, the sun shining warmly, the interior of the Capri heating to almost intolerable. Doyle was in a sunny mood. In deference to the warmer weather he was wearing a lightweight cotton jacket to hide his holster and the sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, while his shirt buttons were undone to the third rib, displaying surprisingly tanned skin. The slipstream from the open window ruffled his curls as he drove towards Whitehall to debrief. 

Bodie’s buttons weren’t undone quite as far as his exhibitionist partner’s, but he still appreciated the breeze around his open throat. Feeling at peace with the world, he smiled at Doyle’s exuberance. Their last free weekend seemed like a distant memory, fleeting and over way too quickly. And in a couple of hours he’d be seeing Pamela again for dinner and a perhaps a movie. 

“Sure you don’t want to come with us?” Doyle coaxed. “Picture it, Bodie. A motor launch cruising idyllically up the Thames, champagne and caviar, two separate cabins, both with double beds.”

“And listen to you two rock the boat,” Bodie retorted. “No thanks. The way that girl gets you going, you’d probably sink it.”

“Well you can swim can’t you?” Doyle laughed, his good mood unaffected by his partner’s answer, but Bodie quietened, Doyle’s words evoking images in his subconscious.

 _You can swim can’t you?_ And Bambrick had. He’d been an excellent swimmer, no one could beat him. Bodie frowned at the memories. And how could a man that could swim so well, drown from falling off a boat? Had he hit his head? Bodie suddenly realised what was bothering him about Bambrick’s demise. He was too good a swimmer to drown.

“…we’ll even be out of RT range, the Cow won’t be able to get hold of us.” 

Bodie tuned back into his partner and Doyle, suddenly aware of the silence glanced across again. “Off with the faeries mate?

“Off with Bambrick.”

“Oh.” Doyle flicked from road to Bodie and back to the road again. 

“How do you think a man who could swim 50 metres underwater and think it a breeze, drown by falling off a boat?”

Doyle took his time answering, attention on the lorry in front of him. “Dunno, heart attack? Hit his head? Drunk?”

“Maybe.” But Bodie didn’t look convinced. Something was niggling at him and he idly let his mind wander, thinking about Bambrick and Tandy and that job at Lake Constance. 

The engine stopping brought him back to the present with an abrupt start. They were in the car park at headquarters and Doyle was looking at him, one hand on the ignition key. “All right then?”

“Yeah.” 

“Then let’s get the report done and get out of here.”

 

He was battling the tippex, trying to alter _supect_ into _suspect_ when Doyle dropped a telexed sheet in front of him. 

“What’s this?” Bodie scanned the top of the page, words jumping out at him, one by one, _Coroner, John Bambrick, deceased, fluid, lungs, accidental drowning._

“I phoned the Coroner’s office,” Doyle explained quietly. “Got a copy of the findings. Death by drowning, fluid in lungs.”

Bodie stared at it. “He couldn’t have drowned.”

“If the sea was rough, a storm maybe?”

He stared at the paper a bit longer. Doyle watched him, eyes penetrating. 

“It’s probably nothing,” Bodie folded the paper, put it in his pocket and glanced at his partner. “I’m done, let’s go home shall we?”

 

***

 

Bodie rang the doorbell for the third time and stood back to look up at the flat. A modest bedsit in Earl’s Court, nothing flash, but handy to public transport and shops. Finally the door opened and a tousled red head appeared, eyes blearily looking up at him from somewhere near his sternum. Bodie adjusted his gaze downwards. She was small and rounded, with interesting curves. 

“Linda?” He asked tentatively, having never met Pamela’s flatmate, only heard about her.

“Normally I’d disembowel anyone who woke me up when I’m on night shift, but luckily for you I make exceptions for tall dark and good looking types.”

Bodie grinned, immediately liking her. “Sorry, didn’t know, was expecting Pamela to be ready.”

“Pam?” Linda yawned and blinked sleepily up at him. “Haven’t seen her. Wasn’t here when I got home. Hardly surprising, we can go for a week without seeing each other on these shifts.” She smacked her lips exaggeratedly and grinned engagingly up at him. “Could take her place if you like?”

Despite his confusion, Bodie had to smile at her temerity and had a thought that at any other time, he’d be tempted to take up the offer. “Er… well you see we had a reservation.”

“Yeah? Unlike Pam to stand up anyone looking like you,” Linda seemed to finally wake up. “Last I saw of her, was when she left for work this morning.” She gazed absently out at the street before casually scratching her midriff. “Should have been back ages ago. Maybe she got held up at the hospital. Look I’ll get her to call you when she comes home if you like.”

“Thanks.” Bodie turned to go, suddenly at a loss. Had she stood him up, or just been delayed? In the car, he picked up the RT and called HQ.

“ _Control_.”

“3.7. Any messages for me?”

“ _Negative 3.7_.”

“Thanks, out.” Bodie replaced the mic in its cradle and started the engine. Absentmindedly wondering whether he should have taken Linda up on her offer, he pulled out into the traffic and headed for home.

Pamela didn’t call, and he tried phoning her flat twice more that night, the connection ringing out both times before he gave up and went to bed.

The next morning he was eating a solitary breakfast when Doyle arrived. Bodie raised a brow at his partner’s disgruntled expression and stood aside to allow him entry. Doyle went straight to Bodie’s plate and snagged a piece of toast.

“Hey, that’s mine.”

“Oh that’s nice,” Doyle replied huffily, moving over to the kettle. He held the slice of toast between his teeth while he filled it, then took a healthy bite and gestured with the crust to his perplexed partner. “Fine way to treat someone who’s given up his cruise for you.”

“What do you mean?” Bodie snatched his plate away from Doyle’s speculative glance. 

His partner sighed heavily and leaned his long frame against the kitchen counter, crossing his feet at the ankles. “As if I’d let you go gallivanting off to find Bambrick’s sister without me to watch your back. Enough odd things are happening around you lately mate, I’m going to be around for the next one.”

Bodie fought the delighted smile that threatened to break over his face. He didn’t ask how Doyle had known that was what he’d planned to do; he’d long ago given up trying to figure out his partner’s sixth sense for trouble. Instead he nodded matter of factly. “Well in that case, you can have another piece of toast. With marmalade.”

 

***

 

Bambrick’s sister resided near Lymington, on the south coast and the drive down was surprisingly clear of any traffic congestion. A warm breeze aired the Capri and the sun obligingly tanned bare arms protruding from open windows. 

Joyce Peterson, the elder of the siblings had been widowed for ten years. Her tiny cottage had an immaculately kept garden and a view of the sea. She led them into the small front room, furnished with comfortable chairs all facing the large window. 

Bodie got directly to the point. “Mrs Peterson, what happened the day your brother drowned?”

She fiddled with the string of jet beads around her neck and looked through the window. “A man came,” she said and her voice sounded frail, sad. “John didn’t like him. They argued and then John took him away from here. I didn’t see him again, they found him washed up on the rocks near the harbour.”

“Was it rough that day?” Doyle interjected. “Was the sea high or storms about?”

“No, it was a rare day,” Joyce said, still staring out of the window. “Beautiful, perfect sailing weather. John was a very good swimmer, but he was uncomfortable on a boat. He wouldn’t go out if it weren’t a good day. I don’t understand how he fell overboard. I don’t understand how he drowned.”

“The man that he argued with,” Bodie pressed. “What did he look like?”

She shrugged, “Tallish, dark hair, blue eyes. I got the impression that they’d known each other for some time, but I don’t know who he was.”

“Did you tell the police this?” Doyle asked, watching Bodie frown over the description.

“They didn’t think it had anything to do with his death. No evidence of foul play.” She turned abruptly from the window and looked imploringly at Bodie. “You worked with John, you said. Mr Bodie, I’m convinced my brothers death wasn’t accidental.”

They did a few more enquiries to the police and around the harbour, but learned nothing new.

On the way home both were quiet until Bodie heaved a sigh. “Well it’s only an assumption isn’t it? Not that we can do anything about it.”

Doyle nodded. “Wonder if this bloke was at the funeral? The one he argued with?”

Bodie thought about the ghostly figures standing amongst the yew trees, cloaked in drizzling rain. “I don’t know. I recognised a lot of the service blokes that were there but no one fit that description.”

Doyle snorted. “The description could fit you.”

So it could and Bodie frowned again. It could apply to a lot of men come to that.

They were silent for a time and then Doyle said; “How was your night with Pamela?”

“No show, think she’s dumped me.”

“Yeah?” Doyle grinned at him. “Better consult your little black book again, mate.”

“Big black book,” Bodie corrected automatically. 

 

***

 

“He has not even noticed her missing.” The voice was cold and Talbot flinched. “She is nothing to him.”

“She is the only woman I have seen him with,” Talbot repeated. “There is no other.”

“She is no use to us,” the man stared out of the window deep in thought. “And if she is useless, we do not need her.”

Talbot waited, unsure if he’d been dismissed or not, but the big man eventually turned back to him. “You say they met with O’Malley’s man, Gordon?”

“Yes?” Talbot felt a clench of fear. He knew Terry Gordon and knew his boss. Patrick O’Malley wouldn’t like to be drawn in on this one and he had a very long reach. He wondered if this man had any idea what he was risking, involving O’Malley. 

Why in God’s name didn’t he just put a bullet into the CI5 agent, if he wanted him dead so badly? Why all this mucking around?

“Get Gordon for me.”

 

***

 

Terry Gordon licked his lips nervously as the Capri glided to a stop outside the Blue Haven.

“We keep meeting like this and I’m going to get a reputation.” Doyle said pointedly, glancing up at the Brothel.

“A message,” Gordon blurted out hurriedly, not wishing to interpret CI5’s bizarre sense of humour. “Some deal happening in a multi story car park near St Katherine Docks, Pennington Street. Said your boss might be interested in it, connected with that little problem you’ve been having.”

“Who?” Doyle asked immediately.

“I don’t know, do I? They don’t give names and phone numbers, don’t wear bleeding name badges. We put the word out like you wanted and this came in.”

He waited warily as the operative tapped his hands lightly on the steering wheel. Gordon had no idea what was going on behind those aviator sunglasses, but eventually Doyle nodded. “When?”

“Sunday morning. Early.”

Doyle glanced across at Bodie but his partner merely shrugged. “Bible meeting maybe?”

“We’ll check it out,” Doyle told Gordon and Terry Gordon was vastly relieved to watch the Capri glide off into the traffic.

 

***

**Chapter 8**

 

It was a gloomy sort of morning. Pearly grey light stained the eastern horizon and the docks were quiet. So were the streets, traffic slow to start this early. There was only one multi story car park on Pennington Street, used mainly by tourists staying in the seedy hotels in the area. Bodie drove the Capri slowly down the narrow lane, past open skip bins overflowing with cardboard and assorted rubbish from the local restaurants and into the dim interior, wheels squealing slightly on the polished concrete as he negotiated the ramp. Beside him, Doyle had his eyes peeled for suspicious activity but they didn’t find any until they reached the second level. 

A group of men were standing by the stairwell. Two were very young, with dirty long hair and wearing patched clothes. One was large, bearded and looked like he could take care of himself in a fight. The last was dressed in leather, lean and mean. They all looked up as the Capri glided up from the lower level, staring into the interior of the car until recognition slowly dawned. And all hell broke loose. A revolver abruptly appeared in the leather clad man’s fist, aimed squarely at Bodie in the driver’s seat. Bodie reacted instantly, stomping on the brake pedal sending Doyle into the dashboard with a curse. The blast of the gun echoed through the concrete pillars, the bullet exploding harmlessly into the front panel of the Capri. The two younger men scattered like flies.

Doyle was out of the Capri, Walther in hand, before Bodie had even come to a stop, dodging into the parked cars near the stairwell. 

Bodie slammed his foot on the accelerator and took off after one of the younger ones. The youth tossed a panicked look back and ducked between parked cars, heading for the exit ramp. Bodie, slammed on the brakes, shoved the gearstick in reverse and the car shot backwards, tyres squealing and smoking in protest. He rammed the youth just as he emerged from the parked cars near the ramp and he went flying with a very satisfying thump, rolling like a rag doll on the ground before finally laying still. The other boy had clambered over the railings to the next level down and Bodie, unable to turn the Capri, got out and instantly gave chase. 

Yanking his Hi Power from his holster he yelled out, “Hold it!”

The boy didn’t even pause and Bodie casually fired a shot past his head. His quarry came to a stuttering stop, hands up, panting wildly. Bodie crept up behind him and pulled one arm down, slapping a cuff on him. Hauling the shaking body to the railing, he snapped the other cuff in place and patted the boy down for concealed weapons. The young face, wild eyed and decorated with a wispy beard appeared appalling under aged, scared out of his wits and Bodie, with a sound of disgust, headed back up to the second level to see where his partner had got to.

A sudden burst of gunfire had him flying around the side of a car to see Doyle struggling with one of the men. It was the larger of the two, the one with the beard; God knows where the other one was. The struggle strayed dangerously close to the barrier. Doyle, outweighed by a good three stone, was physically lifted off his feet by a pair of meaty arms, but rallied quickly, twisting to bring his elbow into the bearded face with all his strength. The man howled, dropping his burden, but not letting completely go. They staggered into the railing. 

Doyle’s close proximity to his assailant made shooting the bastard out of the question. Instead Bodie put on speed, breath coming short as he saw what could happen, what was going to happen if he didn't get there in time. His partner twisted the thug to get an arm up the large back. Roaring with pain the man instinctively surged backwards to ease the pressure, his heavy weight overcoming Doyle’s bracing stance.

"Doyle!" The cry tore from Bodie's lips as the heaving bodies crashed against the barrier, skidding, flailing against their own momentum before finally toppling over, as though in slow motion. His last sight of Doyle was a flash of blue denim as his partner disappeared from sight. 

Bodie’s flight faltered as a disbelieving no escaped from lungs barely able to take in air. Then he was at the barrier, looking down two stories to the ground below, face stricken and white as he took in denim clad legs sprawled on the tarmac by one of the large rubbish skips in the cluttered lane. Bright blood was already running into the gutter. 

From somewhere over the chimney topped roofs, church bells began to peal, summoning the faithful to worship.

 

***

 

George Cowley was on his way to a rare game of golf when he received the news and he re-directed his driver to Pennington Street. London, at it’s quietest on a Sunday morning was serene, the traffic light, the pavements empty and he arrived to the flashing blue and red lights of police and ambulance. Cowley alighted to take in the scene. A blanket covered body lay on a stretcher, the face shielded from view, a substantial amount of blood lay congealing in the gutter and a constable was already using police tape to cordon off the lane. Cowley looked around and found Bodie by the back of the ambulance, staring inside. Cowley hurried over and Bodie looked up. He was quite pale, his face carefully expressionless and Cowley raised a brow at his tough hard agent, recognising that something had given Bodie a profound shock.

“What happened here?”

“Gordon gave us a tip off. Something going down about these crank calls. Doyle and I showed up and they all scattered. One got away. One is over there,” he jerked his head to the police car where a long haired lad hid his face in the back seat. “One with a couple of broken ribs and a fractured collarbone up there.” And he pointed to the car park.

“Where’s Doyle?” Cowley watched his operative stiffen again, lips firmly pressed together, before he turned and looked at the stretcher and the body strapped to it, ready for the morgue, blood saturating the blanket that covered the face.

 

***

Alfie Talbot reported in to his current employer, sorely missing the ordinary, uncomplicated criminal activity of his normal working week. Obviously used only for these visits, the flat was bare, economic, devoid of any sort of comfort, a bit like the man waiting for him. Talbot wondered, not for the first time, who the man was and what he did. And what had happened, to give him this cold murderous anger. He almost felt sorry for the target.

“Well?”

Talbot cleared his throat. “Yeah, well you were right, they were the ones sent to the deal.”

“That is because Gordon is their contact.” The voice was satisfied. “And?”

“Well, that’s where it went wrong. The lads we hired panicked, didn’t fight back. A bleeding bunch of amateurs. Except the big bloke, only he went after the wrong one. He went after the partner and they both ended up going over the railing.”

The blue eyes were ice cold as they turned on him. “So Bodie was unharmed?”

“Well yeah, if you can call the shock of seeing his mate falling off the second level, unharmed. Went white as a sheet, he did.”

“Wait.” A hand in the air stopped him and he looked warily at the big man. “You said he…seemed upset by his friend being killed?”

“Well yeah, went down those stairs like the hounds of hell were after him. Only his mate wasn’t killed.” 

The frigid stare made him hurriedly carry on. “Well I don’t think he was. The big bloke was though, they had him strapped down and covered up on a stretcher all ready for the morgue, but the ambulance went off without him and Bodie went with it. His partner had to still be alive, hadn’t he, if they had the sirens going full belt.” 

 

***

 

Bodie watched as the doctor carefully examined Doyle’s prone body, looking for injuries other than the visibly broken arm. His partner lay compliant, clad only in his filthy jeans, eyes slightly glazed from whatever it was they’d administered in the ambulance. The doctor’s strong fingers moulded impersonally around Doyle’s ankles, legs, pelvis and up to his ribs, eliciting a startled giggle from his patient as he hit a sensitive spot. 

Bodie angled an eyebrow at that, wondering what on earth they had pumped into Doyle for the pain. 

Relief still pulsed through him in waves. He’d thought his heart had stopped when his partner had toppled over the balustrade, and he still felt sick as the image vindictively replayed in his memory, over and over. He had no recollection of racing down the stairwell, of reaching the ground floor, all his focus solely on those sprawled bloodied denim legs he’d viewed from above. But even as he’d skidded to a stop beside the body, he’d realised it wasn’t his partner. It was the big bloke, the bearded one, his face covered in blood, the left side of his head caved in against the kerb edging. Doyle was nowhere in sight. He’d looked wildly around, his belly churning but his partner had vanished.

“You say he landed in a bin?” the doctor enquired, pushing Doyle’s left hand down, away from his examination. He tested another rib and Doyle jerked, another husky giggle emerging and Bodie shook his head, bemused by his partner’s behaviour. 

“Yeah, a skip full of cardboard boxes. They broke his fall,” his gaze switched to Doyle’s swollen right forearm, laying at an unnatural angle, blue and purple bruising emerging from elbow to wrist, adding, “and his arm.” 

“Mmm, a fracture to the ulna, probably hit it on the side of the container as he went in.” The doctor was now prodding gently around a graceful clavicle before running his fingers expertly around Doyle’s neck and into his hair, exploring the base of the skull. “He’s extremely lucky, there doesn’t seem to be any other damage apart from some bruises and that cut above his eyebrow.” He straightened up and removed his stethoscope from around his neck. “But we might do a few xrays before surgery, to make sure there’s nothing damaged inside and we’ll keep him in for a couple of days for observation.”

He placed the stethoscope on Doyle’s chest; the cold steel of the instrument provoking another peel of husky laughter and his patient’s left hand came up again, in a feeble attempt to push it away.

Bodie frowned. “What on earth did you give him?”

The doctor gently removed the hand again and said with a perfectly straight face; “Laughing gas.”

 

***

**Chapter 9**

 

Sergeant Brian Thackery waited on a pontoon made positively dangerous by the excrement of the numerous seagulls in this part of the Thames and watched the approach of a small boat, containing two men and a blanket wrapped body. The Hammersmith stretch of the river boasted some fine pubs and cafes and was an unlikely location to recover a body, yet it seemed to occur with distressing frequency. 

The Sergeant sighed heavily. Floaters weren’t his idea of an ideal morning, especially when fragrant salt and vinegar emissions from the pub directly behind him advertised fish and chips on the lunch menu and diners were lining the stone wall, drawn with morbid fascination to the police presence.

His attention returned to his job as PC Bodington threw him the tether and Thackery hastily tied the small boat off. “No ID,” Bodington reported, straightening his uniform while beside him the unlucky fisherman that had hooked the body gazed determinedly away over the river towards the bridge.

Bending down carefully on the slippery surface, Thackery pulled back the blanket. Long blond hair wrapped like bleached seaweed around a face puffy with water. 

He sighed again. She’d been pretty. Now she was dead. What a morning. 

Dropping the blanket back down, he instructed his men, “get a mug shot and circulate it. Check missing persons to start with.”

He turned and walked up the ramp to the small lane that meandered its way along the river. The curious diners watched him from the wall, speculating on his presence while the ambulance redundantly flashed its lights. 

The smell of food suddenly made him feel sick.

 

***

 

Bodie was still at the hospital when Doyle emerged from surgery. His right arm was neatly plastered from elbow to wrist and his partner was still out of it, eyelids heavily sealed, face slightly bruised, the cut above his eye a thin red slash against all that paleness.

He was wheeled into a private room and the ward nurse fussed with her observations, writing her findings on the chart hanging from the end of the bed.

Bodie waited until she left before sitting down next to his sleeping partner. He looked at Doyle for a long time, thinking that if guardian angels really existed, then Doyle’s deserved a bloody big medal. Bodie shuddered at the thought of Doyle’s luck running out altogether and glared at his hapless team mate for taking such risks. Doyle, fortunately unaware of the ire directed his way, lay unknowing and unresponsive.

Bodie sighed, annoyance dissipating slowly and leaned his elbows on the clean sheets, cupping his face with his hands. “God mate, why do you do it?”

He knew why of course. Why did any of them do it? But was it worth their lives? He wouldn’t have thought so once. Tired now, his eyes fell on the cast encasing the broken arm, as clean as a fresh page of paper, and his expression slowly changed. Eyes suddenly dancing with devilment, he got up and walked to the end of the bed, where the patient chart was hooked on the bed frame. Carefully he eased the pen from the clasp and returned to the bedside. Doyle slept on as Bodie pressed the clip on the biro and braced his right arm against the bed. 

He was just finishing when a sleep husky voice said; “what’re you doing?”

Glancing up into hazy drugged eyes he smiled at his partner. “Just my autograph, sunshine.”

Doyle’s tongue came out and licked his bottom lip. “Thirsty.”

“I bet you are.” Bodie used the bedside jug to pour a small amount of water into a cup and held to his partner’s mouth, supporting the back of his head while he swallowed the fluid. Doyle fell back on the pillow and regarded him with growing suspicion.

“What?” he mumbled, trying and failing to lift his right arm to see for himself. “What did you write?”

Bodie reached out and gently closed Doyle’s heavy eyelids. “Go to sleep, Ray.”

He stood up, smiling down at his handiwork. Stark blue letters decorated the clean white cast. _My arm isn’t really broken. I’m just wearing this to pull the birds_.

 

***

 

The long haired youth in interrogation room number six looked like he was about to burst into tears. Cowley glared down at him with a mixture of disgust and pity. Gary Reginald Cooper was seventeen and his ill judged decision to join in a little bashing to prove to his mates how tough he was, had backfired with dire consequences. 

“Who hired you?” Cowley demanded yet again, but the boy just hunched into himself and repeated what he’d been saying all along. 

“I don’t know, honest. Kev just said he’d picked up a job at the pub, someone wanted a bit of scaring done for 100 quid. Gave Kev the time and place and a photograph of the bloke. We were just going to rough him up a bit, that’s all.”

Cowley walked around the chair glancing at Murphy, who was standing by the door. 

“Did you see the photograph of the man he wanted roughing up?” Murphy asked, breaking the silence.

Cooper shook his head miserably. “No only Kev saw that. I was there just to boost the numbers.”

“And Kev was the one who got away?” Cowley confirmed. “What’s his full name?”

“I don’t know,” Cooper claimed miserably. “I talk to him down the pub sometimes, when he’s there. He said it was easy money, that he does it all the time.” 

“Why did he need you?” Cowley was coming to the conclusion he was wasting his time. The lad didn’t know anything and the stumbling hesitant answer confirmed his guess.

“Because the bloke we was after was fairly tough and we’d have a better show if there was a few of us. I swear I knew nothing about guns. I took off the minute the first shot was fired. Scared the shit out of me.”

Cowley gestured to Murphy and his operative turned around and opened the door. A man entered with a small tin of pencils and a large sketch pad. 

Murphy stood aside as his boss joined him. “So is it Doyle or Bodie?”

“I don’t know.” Cowley answered musingly. “But I’ll find out.” He nodded to the sketch artist. “Do your best, Malcolm.”

 

***

 

Doyle was sitting on the edge of his bed when Bodie swung by to pick him up on Wednesday morning, enduring the stern list of do’s and don’t’s from a pretty dark haired nurse as she pinned a sling securely around his neck. Bodie grinned at the disgruntled look on his team mate’s face as she reached past him for a packet of medication on the bedside trolley.

“You’ve been sprung then?” he asked solicitously. 

Doyle scowled impatiently. “Just get me out of here, Bodie.”

As soon as he sprawled into the passenger seat of the Capri, Doyle tore the sling off and threw it into the back seat.

“Tut tut,” Bodie admonished as he turned the ignition key, “what would Nurse Simcox say?”

“Well,” Doyle stretched, wincing slightly as he settled the arm across his midriff. “I’ll ask her, shall I? When I take her to dinner Friday night.”

Bodie shot a disbelieving look at his partner. “You never got her phone number? Not after your reaction to that pain relief.”

Doyle patted his pocket and gave him a lazy smile. “Stop at the shops, I want to get in some champagne.”

“Can’t have alcohol on those pills mate,” Bodie reminded him, pulling into the traffic, merging smoothly between a bus and a motorbike.

“The champagne’s not for me,” Doyle told him smugly. 

Bodie cast him a haughty look. “Should think not, Nurse Simcox will never take you seriously if you start giggling again.”

 

***

 

Dropping his sleepy partner home for a few days convalescence, Bodie drove back to HQ for a meeting about a suspected terrorist.

“Bodie!”

He stopped, a charming smile instantly on his face as he turned towards Betty, utterly desirable as usual with her touch me not expression and tantalising figure. She gave him an exasperated look and handed him an envelope. “This came in the post for you. If you have personal mail Bodie, don’t let it clutter up the pigeon holes for three days.”

He took the envelope and gave her a sketchy salute. It wasn’t until he turned and carried on that she smiled fondly after him and went back to her desk.

Bodie glanced curiously at the envelope as he pushed open the door to the meeting room, where Cowley had set up a projector. Several operatives were already there, drinking coffee and waiting patiently. Taking a seat next to Murphy, he casually inserted his thumb into the flap of the envelope as Anson closed the door behind him and switched off the lights. The projector came to life and a number of images began appearing accompanied by Cowley’s voice, identifying and explaining. Bodie kept half his attention on the screen, and the other half occupied with opening the large envelope. 

His chief was in the middle of explaining the KGB interest in the Nordic man whose face was grainily projected onto the screen when the first of the photographs slid out of the envelope. Bodie’s attention, diverted from Skellen Andersson to the glossy images under his hands, squinted, trying to make out the subject in the pictures. 

Cowley clicked the slide over to a blank, in order to adjust his notes. The bright white projector light lit up the room, punctuated by a very loud, “Bloody hell.”

 

***

 

Cowley spread the photographs across his desk and looked up at his dark haired operative. Bodie’s lips compressed as he viewed the images, upside down. Himself and Pamela. Laughing, chatting, eating Italian at Knightsbridge. 

“I barely know her sir, we only had two dates and I haven’t seen her since last Friday.”

“Did you plan to?” George Cowley leaned back, sensing something…something Bodie was withholding.

“Yeah, but she stood me up, never contacted me,” he shrugged, “thought she wasn’t interested.”

“Why would someone do this?”

Bodie looked uncomfortable. “I really don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “But it’s not the first time.”

“Eh?”

“A week or so ago, I got some photos at home. Just of me at my front door.” He hesitated slightly as though of two minds to impart any more. Then, decision made he went on. “There was a stray cat that had been hanging around; it was in the photos as well. The cat turned up dead the next day.”

Cowley looked penetratingly at his agent. “And you think something may have happened to this young lady?”

“I’m not sure sir, but I’d like to go and check. She works at Guy’s.”

“Why didn’t you mention the cat?” Cowley asked, although he thought he already knew. 

His lethal agent stared at the desk. “It was just a cat; I didn’t think it was work related.”

Cowley turned the envelope over. It was post marked the 25th. “It’s been sitting here a while. I suggest you track down this young lady Bodie, ensure she is all right before we tackle who is responsible.”

Bodie agreed and headed for the car park immediately. 

No one was home at Pamela’s flat, so he drove to the hospital where his ID quickly admitted him to the head of staff.

“Pamela Drew,” the clerk murmured, glancing down the roster sheets. “Last worked on the 25th, then had two days off, was due back today, but didn’t turn up.”

“Can I talk to whoever she worked with on the 25th?” Bodie asked, a sinking feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. 

The clerk consulted his roster again and gave Bodie three names. “Anita is on duty right now in the physio ward, the others are rostered on tonight.”

Bodie thanked him and made his way to the physiotherapy ward. Anita Collins was helping a brain tumour patient negotiate a pair of parallel bars when Bodie introduced himself. She was a middle aged woman, her face kind and attractive, her figure slim and strong. 

“Pamela?” She corrected the young man at the bars absently and glanced up at Bodie before returning to her task. “I remember she was excited about her date that night. She was rather smitten, so I was curious to see him when he turned up to collect her.”

“He turned up?” Bodie asked sharply. “What did he look like?”

Anita paused while she eased in behind her patient to correct his movement again. “Well not what I expected. Tall, dark haired, blue eyed. Fit but he seemed remote, austere. Not what I thought Pamela would like.” She glanced at him again, with a hint of flirtation. “You’re more her type, if you must know.”

“How did she act with him?” Bodie persisted. “Did she seem happy to see him?”

The woman paused and pursed her lips. “Now that you mention it, no. She seemed rather strained, almost reluctant to go, but he insisted. He had his arms around her but she was all stiff, as though she’d had a fight with him.”

He gritted his teeth and managed not to swear. Coerced most likely, probably a weapon pressed unseen into her side. “And no one has seen her since?”

Anita shook her head. “She was only due back today. I assumed she was sick. Have you tried her flatmate, Linda?”

Bodie was about to answer when his RT beeped. He excused himself to answer it. “3.7”

 

***

 

Cowely watched his operatives face as the sheet was pulled back. Unsurprisingly, it displayed nothing; carefully blank as only Bodie could do so well.

“That’s her,” he said finally, his voice flat, emotionless, but Cowley saw a slight movement in his jaw. He recognised it immediately. Bodie’s fuse had just ignited.

“Pamela Drew,” he confirmed. “Her parents put out a missing persons report when she failed to make her usual weekly call. Drowned, no evidence of foul play.”

Dark blue eyes shot up at that. Cowley caught the look before Bodie closed down again.

“What is it?”

For a minute he thought that Bodie wasn’t going to tell him. Then his operative shrugged. “Just a co-incidence. An old SAS mate drowned a few weeks ago.”

Cowley rubbed a finger lightly across his lips. “I don’t believe in co-incidences.” He turned towards the door and Bodie automatically fell in beside him. Outside the sun was still shining warmly. Bodie undid his jacket, allowing the air to swirl around and cool his body.

“So if it’s not a co-incidence,” Cowley went on, “what is the connection?”

“Me,” Bodie said succinctly.

“Aye, but why?”

Bodie was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Dunno. Haven’t seen Bambrick in years. Only just met Pamela.”

Cowley stopped beside his car. “Then you have some work to do, don’t you laddie.”

 

***

 

The next day Bodie called to update Doyle. More alert now and tired of being cooped up, Doyle suggested they walk in the nearby park and Bodie readily agreed. His partner was subdued as they strolled along flower beds, the earth rich and well turned, pansies, violets and primroses in full bloom. 

“Tall, dark haired, blue eyed?”

“Yeah,” Bodie squinted across the lake. A young family were feeding the ducks at the waters edge and the resulting vocal appreciation nearly drowned out Doyle’s next words.

“Sounds like you.”

He’d said that once before. Bodie looked at his partner with interest. Doyle had been forced to replace the sling, his arm too painful without it, but his gaze was sharp, those green-blue eyes concerned.

“Didn’t mention beautiful though, did they?” He made an attempt at levity.

“Or modest,” Doyle’s chuckle didn’t quite have his usual merriment. “I liked her.”

Bodie nodded. “So did I.”

“And I suppose you still think nothing is going on?”

“They aren’t necessarily connected,” Bodie pointed out logically, although he thought nothing of the sort. In fact the whole thing was beginning to feel like a set up and he could sense that Ray felt the same way. For some reason that made him even more uneasy. “She could have been depressed or suicidal, for all I know. I only went out with her twice.”

“You don’t believe that.” 

Bodie knew his partner, knew Doyle wouldn’t give up now. He kicked a stone out of his way. “Neither does Cowley.”

“Then we have to try and connect them,” Doyle’s determination made Bodie wince. 

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he admitted. “Cowley’s got me looking into their backgrounds, trying to find the common denominator. The only thing is me and even that doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t seen Bambrick in years, I only met Pamela last week.”

They walked together in silence for a time. 

“How long are you off?” Bodie finally asked. 

“Just this week,” Doyle said morosely and put on a fairly accurate Scots accent. “You, Doyle, dinna hae the excuse of yon gun hand being damaged as ye ken verra well ye can just use the other.”

Bodie laughed, and reached out to ruffle his partner’s curls. Doyle dodged away and grinned at him. “But it’ll be light duties.”

“Teach you to be ambidextrous,” Bodie admonished. “Least you get the weekend free.”

“Yeah. Thinking of taking Irene to that benefit concert, the one in Marble Hill Park,” he glanced up at the sky. “Provided it doesn’t rain that is.”

“What benefit concert?” 

“Nothing you’d know,” Doyle scoffed. “Mozart and a bit of Brahms, maybe some Schubert. Full orchestra.”

“Dirge music you mean,” Bodie snorted contemptuously.

“It’s beautiful, it is,” Doyle asserted dreamily, shifting his arm carefully in the sling. “Sitting by the river, glass of champagne, the delicious Irene and soaring music on a balmy summer night.” 

“Barmy is right anyway,” Bodie told him pityingly.

“Peasant,” Doyle replied, without heat. “Anyway, all proceeds go to charity, so it’s for a good cause.” 

The path curved around to run alongside the road, bordered by a bed of roses. The sun shone brightly and from somewhere they could hear children playing. 

“Fancy catching the game tomorrow night on the box?”

Doyle mimicked dribbling a football down the path. “Yeah, come round, I’ll get in some chinese.”

Bodie grinned, feeling better than he had all week. They walked on.

Behind them, unseen, a zoom lens protruded from the driver’s window of a black Bedford van. The clicking of the shutter was lost in the traffic, which drove steadily down Gloucester Road. 

 

***

**Chapter 10**

 

Bodie spent the next day immersed in telephone calls and records, trying to find a connection between Bambrick and Pamela. Nothing came to light, but something Doyle had said stirred long forgotten memories. _Sounds like you_. 

The face came slowly. They’d been friends once, comrades in arms. They’d shared their colouring. Tall, dark haired, blue eyed. People had often remarked on it. But then something had changed with him, Bodie had never known what. His nature, always intense had become darker, his actions reprehensible and finally unstable and he’d ultimately gone too far. 

Bodie didn’t think of him often, but Doyle’s remark had triggered the recollection. _Austere, stern_. He’d been court martialled in the end and the last Bodie had heard, he’d been committed to a psychiatric institution. 

The phone ringing jerked him from his reveries and he wiped a hand over his face, dispelling the images. His eyes fell to the notebook in front of him, to see a name scrawled in bold ink right across the page repetitively. _Paul Stafford. Paul Stafford. Paul Stafford_.

 

***

 

The afternoon was hot. Hot enough to open the windows and Doyle did so, disarming the alarm. Clad only in a thin t-shirt and faded patched jeans, he stood barefoot in the airflow with a beer in his left hand, watching a group of children playing football in the street outside his mews flat. He smiled at their exuberance, knowing that as soon as the match started in a couple of hours, the street would be deserted and as quiet as the grave. 

Resting his cast on the window ledge, he drank his beer, enjoying the cool breeze that lifted his hair away from his sticky neck. His eyes, moving away from the kids, fell on a dark van parked opposite his flat and his eyes narrowed, recalling Bodie’s near miss with a similar vehicle. He leaned slightly to the left, trying to see the plate, thinking to call it in.

Movement at the passenger window snapped his attention back, his stunned gaze locking on a long thin barrel protruding from a hunched figure in the dim interior. Instinctively he reeled back, away from exposure, his reflexes kicking in almost before his brain had identified the weapon trained on him. 

Something sharp bit him in the shoulder. He glanced down astonished, not having heard the weapon fire. Numbness spread with shocking speed. His beer dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and his legs gave way. Falling heavily to the floor his last conscious thought was the puddle of beer on his carpet.

 

***

 

Bodie checked his watch, decided to pack up for the night. He’d have just enough time to get himself to Doyle’s, settle with a plate of chinese, pull the tab on a cold can of lager and he could finally relax with the match of the day. He stood up and picked up the light weight jacket that summer dictated he wear instead of his usual leather to cover the shoulder holster. Leaving the records room, he headed for the door.

“Bodie.”

Bodie froze and whispered a swear word as he turned to face his boss. _So near and yet….._ the thought cut off abruptly as he saw the plain envelope in Cowley’s hands.

“Delivered by taxi,” Cowley told him quietly.

He knew. He knew before the glossy photos slid out of the envelope, before he saw Doyle’s animated face, his own hand ruffling his partner’s curls, the cast and sling white against Doyle’s green t-shirt as they’d walked in the park just yesterday. Bodie stared at the set of photographs and felt his stomach clench alarmingly.

Cowley was immediately on the phone, dialling his partner’s number.

“No answer.”

“He’s either out getting the takeaway or….” Bodie pushed to his feet and left the office at a run. Cowley kept dialling.

Finding a space outside Doyle’s mews flat was impossible at the best of times. This time Bodie didn’t even try. He simply drove the Capri up onto the pavement, alighted and hared for the outer door. 

And halted, swearing under his breath as he saw the door ajar, the lock splintered, damage consistent with gunfire. Instinctively, he flattened himself to the side of the doorframe, listening intently, but all he could hear was the football match in stereo from nearby televisions.

Bodie took a breath and sprang inside, taking the internal stairs to the upper living area two at a time, weapon out and up, eyes swinging around the lounge room, feeding details to the brain like a well-oiled machine. A cool breeze ruffled the curtains at the open window, but the silence told him no one was here. Erring on the side of caution, he checked all the rooms anyway, before coming back to the open window and the spilled bottle of beer on the carpet. Bodie looked outside to the deserted street, just as Liverpool scored a goal.

 

***

 

Malone’s boys were meticulously dusting for prints and taking photographs while Cowley stood at the window, fingers and thumb caressing his jaw. He was aware of Bodie pacing like a tiger behind him, fuse well and truly smouldering.

“What I don’t get is why?” Bodie demanded. “Nothing, no note, no calls, nothing, just those photos.”

Cowley turned around thoughtfully and eyed his operative sternly. “You don’t get why Bodie? Someone kills a cat that you’ve taken a liking to, a girl you’ve taken out mysteriously drowns, someone abducts your partner. Doesn’t that tell you why?”

Bodie stopped and glared at him. “Me? But if they want me, why….”

“On your toes, man.” Cowley leaned on the windowsill irritably and looked out into the night sky. “He doesn’t want to kill you. Well not yet. He wants to see you hurt, see you suffer.” He looked up as Murphy came up the stairs, dodging around Malone who was dusting the door frame, and added, “the question is who?”

“Nothing sir, everyone was watching the match.” Murphy glanced at Bodie sympathetically. “Certainly no one heard any gunshots.”

“Silencer, I’d say, if no one heard anything,” Malone interrupted. He held out a plastic bag showing some spent shells. “On the door, anyway. Don’t know about Doyle. There’s nothing to indicate what happened to him, save the beer on the floor. I’m assuming he was standing here when he dropped it.”

“Which indicates that it was something through the window,” Cowley finished. He looked around. “But there’s no blood?”

“None,” Malone confirmed, glancing cautiously at Bodie. “No casings either, no impact of any kind. Well not outside of Doyle’s body, that is. The only ballistic evidence is around the front door.” 

Cowley was also looking at Bodie. “Which makes me assume he’s alive and they went to some trouble to take him alive. Whoever your friend is Bodie, he’s a professional.”

 

**Chapter 11**

 

He could hear water lapping. It was a strangely soothing sound, echoing from somewhere open and damp. But it was cold. He curled in on himself, trying to conserve body heat, his mind fuzzy, foggily drifting on the surface of the cold, idly processing the cause of his current state. His chattering teeth finally pushed his awareness into the here and now and he shifted, opening his eyes. And saw nothing. The utter blackness unnerved him and he reached his left hand up to feel his face, half expecting a blindfold. But his eyes were uncovered, his limbs unrestrained. He shifted again, his bare feet and the bare arm he’d been lying on, almost numb from the damp floor. 

Doyle rolled groggily to his hands and knees, and then rocked back swearing softly as his broken arm complained with the weight, the wrist unbending in the cast. The floor was strangely uneven, ridged in parallel uniformness. There was no light at all and he glanced around trying to pinpoint where he was. The utter blackness defeated him, but he could smell more than dampness now, the reek of mud and silt assaulted his nasal passages and he sniffed against the odour. 

Somewhere near the river then, in some sort of cavernous structure, as evidenced by the slight echo. He went to stand up and cried out as his head connected with something hard, forcing him back to his knees. Crouching there, left hand clutching the top of his head, he waited for the pain to subside before gingerly outstretching his arm, searching carefully with tentative fingers. Bars. Cold iron bars. He followed the bars by touch and discovered to his indignation that he was in some sort of cage. Further exploration found the door and the sizeable padlock preventing escape. Doyle sat back, stunned. He couldn’t stand upright and he couldn’t lie down fully, which gave every indication he was imprisoned in some sort of animal enclosure.

Ray Doyle could swear with the best of them. Lengthily and inventively and he did so now, and even added a few choice words in a couple of other languages, he’d picked up over the years.

 

***

 

It was five in the morning when Bodie arrived at HQ. He hadn’t slept a wink, not surprising really, not when he hadn’t had a decent night since Bambrick’s funeral. He’d made a try of it though, stretched out on his sofa with a full glass of whisky beside him. But he’d known when he’d laid down that it wouldn’t work. His thoughts jumbled around and round and round and he stared at the ceiling, recalling and discarding likely suspects in this seemingly personal vendetta. This pay back. And his thoughts kept coming back to that description. Tall, blue eyed, dark haired.

That Cowley was also in his office was no surprise to Bodie. His boss might bluster about how expendable they all were but that didn’t mean he liked it. And he didn’t, Bodie thought with some relief as he heard that distinctive Scottish voice blasting someone on the phone.

They would find Doyle, they had to. Pamela’s white bloated face drifted across his inner turmoil and Bodie gritted his teeth and resolutely pushed away the notion that if the same nutter had his partner, that could very well be Doyle’s fate.

He sat down at the same desk in the records room where he’d been chasing his leads from the day before and picked up the phone. By eight o’clock he’d eliminated four people from his list. 

Henry MacBain was working with the English embassy in America and had been for five years. He’d come good, MacBain, despite their disagreements in the Congo.

Maurice Lautrec had emigrated to Canada and was working the cod boats off Newfoundland. Phil Reeves was dead, buried in Highgate Cemetery.

And Digby Johnson was still doing merc work in Africa.

Bodie still had five names on his mental list when he was interrupted by the door opening. Betty’s well groomed head appeared in the gap.

“Bodie, Mr Cowley said to come to his office immediately. It’s urgent.”

Bodie was on his feet almost before she’d finished, pushing past her in a manner quite unlike his usual gentlemanly self. Betty followed on his heels, worry threading through her insides at the latest development.

George Cowley was standing by the window when Bodie walked in. At the questioning dark blue gaze, he indicated another blank envelope on the desk.

Bodie strode over and picked it up. What fell out hit him like a fist in his gut and he had to consciously take a breath. A lock of dark hair, curling waywardly, baby soft and instantly recognisable. He stared at it, lips thinned, eyes burning intensely. 

Cowley walked over to the desk and pushed a typed piece of paper in front of him. “This came with it.”

He focussed on the words with difficulty.

_Bit by bit. Remember Bodie?_

George Cowley, watching closely saw his agent blanch suddenly, right to his lips. “Who is it Bodie?”

But Bodie shook his head, took a step back, closing up. 

George Cowley slammed his fist on the desk. “Don’t give me that. You want to risk your partner’s life? Bit by bit? What’s next? A finger? An ear? Names Bodie, give me names.”

Bodie looked at him mutinously, silently and Cowley stared back incredulously, trying to comprehend the unbelievable fact that Bodie wasn’t going to tell him. And not telling him was bad enough, but risking his partner’s life by not telling him? 

Cowley looked Bodie over shrewdly, carefully, noting the stubborn set to the mouth, the resolve in the blue eyes. He knew his dark haired agent, knew what made him tick and Bodie’s loyalty, once given, was absolute. It suddenly dawned on Cowley that Bodie wasn’t risking his partner by not telling him, in fact just the opposite; he was _protecting_ Doyle by not telling him, that involving CI5 would undoubtedly end his partner’s life, and Bodie believed it wholeheartedly. Whoever he was up against, whoever it was that had him by the throat, playing by a set of rules that Bodie plainly knew and couldn’t, wouldn’t disobey must be very dangerous indeed. 

The silence in the room was deafening and it took some time before Betty’s presence at the door and the soft clearing of her throat penetrated. Cowley reluctantly broke eye contact and switched his gaze to his secretary.

“The Minister, sir,” she said apologetically, “he says it is quite important.”

Indicating to Bodie that he should wait, Cowley reached for the phone.

He was not pleased; ten minutes later when he ended the call, to find his disobedient agent had disappeared.

 

***

 

Terry Gordon didn’t care whether Trudy’s moans were genuine or not. In fact, Gordon didn’t really care whether the prostitute was even comfortable during their sessions. His money was for his own enjoyment and he was enthusiastic in his pursuit of it.

He was working up a fine sweat when the door burst open, accompanied by a small scream from Trudy - not a bad feat considering what her mouth was busy doing at the time.

Gordon jerked around, nearly doing himself an injury in the process and saw two young men standing side by side in the doorway to the squalid room. He’d never seen them before, but their amused cocky arrogance and ready for action posture put him in mind of another pair of young men - men that disconcertingly popped up at the most inopportune time as well.

“Who the hell are you?” he snarled, hauling the sheet up to cover himself and totally ignoring the nude woman on the bed. 

“That’s not nice, Mac,” the fair one imparted with a rueful tut tut sound, “you could have at least let him finish.”

The dark haired one grinned. “I was doing the girl a favour. Easy money, hey love?” He winked lewdly at her and addressed the perplexed Gordon. “Come on you, someone wants a word with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gordon edged backwards with a growing sense of panic, reached for his trousers and pulled them hurriedly on. “O’Malley won’t like this.”

“I was afraid you might say that,” the man called Mac sighed regretfully, then turned to his friend. “Lucas?”

The fair haired man with the tight curls pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and stepped up to the bed. He winked at Trudy, who was alternatively trying to cover herself up and mindful of business opportunities, appear appealing to these two good looking young men. “Sorry love they aren’t for you, so don’t go getting excited.” He flipped them open and added conspiratorially, “not padded you see.”

Gordon was hauled spluttering and protesting from the bed without ceremony and the cuffs clapped on him.

 

***

 

The Cock & Boar was a seedy pub in London’s east end. Drunken fights were common, both on and off the premises, gangs roamed the streets, and if your car had tyres when you exited the establishment at closing, you were lucky. Bodie had never imagined himself entering its dim interior ever again. He’d been young that last time. Young enough that the confrontation had left a lasting impression, one he didn’t care to repeat. 

Paul Stafford had always used this pub as the rendezvous for their missions. Incognito, he’d said. Hiding in plain sight and he’d been right, in a way. Their assignments had never been compromised.

Now that he knew who he was up against, it all made sense. He waited patiently, trying not to think of his partner. Thinking of Doyle would reveal his weak spot and he knew it would be used against him. 

Instead his thoughts turned reluctantly to his boss. Cowley would go ballistic and Bodie thinned his lips, knowing full well the tirade awaiting him – if he managed to get out of this in one piece that is. And the fact that he hadn’t confided in Cowley was at the top of the list. 

But Bodie knew Cowley wouldn’t negotiate, not even for one of his own and it was certainly no amateur that had Doyle, in fact just the opposite. Professional, ruthless, smart and psychotic, Bodie had not the slightest doubt that Stafford would slice another piece off Doyle to make his point; he was capable of far worse. 

The realisation of how carefully this had been set up was now hitting home. He’d been watching Bodie for weeks, knew what he did, where he went, who he dated. He had resources to fund the best that money could buy, and obviously had done so in his twisted thirst for revenge. 

Someone had followed him to the pub, someone was watching him even now and Bodie knew painfully from past experience, that if he made the slightest attempt to involve CI5, he could kiss Doyle’s life goodbye in a heart beat and there was nothing Cowley or CI5 could do to prevent it. 

It was a risk he was unwilling to take. 

He revised his options, fine tuning his plans while he waited. Doyle, if he were capable, would have fought his captor, broken arm or not, and therefore would certainly be restrained somehow. Provided he hadn’t been sedated, and Bodie hoped to god he hadn’t. A drugged partner, especially a bound one, wasn’t something he could get around, not with Stafford holding all the cards. 

Bodie pressed his foot against the rungs of the bar stool, confirming the presence of a couple of small items he’d secreted under the tongue of his shoe. Knowing he’d be searched thoroughly, he’d taken a gamble with them, and he hoped to hell they’d remain undetected. Stafford might be a professional, would probably think of checking his shoes but with a bit of luck his hired hands wouldn’t be as savvy. 

The barmaid, her over made up face and low cleavage indicative of the patronage approached him, dragging a phone with her, stretching the cord precariously along the bar to where he perched on his stool.

“You Bodie?” She asked, brazenly eyeing him up and down. 

Bodie gave a short nod, but his face remained hard, his eyes glacial.

“Phone call.”

Bodie took the phone and held it up to his ear. And there was the voice. The voice he hadn’t heard in so long.

“So you turned up.”

“Yeah.” He gave nothing away, not in his voice, nor in his face or posture.

“Then he does mean something to you?”

“He means something to my boss,” Bodie replied, a lot calmer than he felt. “My boss wants him back.”

“But not to you?”

“He’s my partner, we just work together.” He kept his voice indifferent, but his heart started to speed up. 

“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have turned up.”

“Told you, my boss wants him back.”

There was silence and Bodie waited, sweat beading on his upper lip. Then Stafford’s voice came again, filled with satisfaction. “How does it feel Bodie? How does it feel to lose something you care about?”

And there it was, that thing between them, the past that would forever turn up in the present, like a bad penny, no matter how much you thought it dead and buried.

Bodie didn’t answer, knew his answers were crucial to Doyle’s well being. But he wasn’t surprised his lies were detected. The bastard had always been good at that.

“You’re being watched Bodie. Any sign of a tail, any at all, and your partner will be floating face down in the Thames.”

The phone went dead and Bodie, gritting his teeth in furious frustration replaced the receiver. He knew the drill. He sat and waited, waited for Stafford to finish his checks, to finish scoping the premises, not drinking, not making eye contact with anyone.

 

***

 

Terry Gordon sat in interrogation room number five, at a desk littered with binders of mug shots. He hadn’t stopped sweating.

George Cowley watched him through the one way mirror, eyes narrowed contemplatively. In his hand he held the notebook that Bodie had used the previous day, the pages covered with notes, doodles and phone numbers. Stark letters overrode all of the half hearted graffiti. A name, heavily inked in Bodie’s strong hand. _Paul Stafford_.

Cowley had immediately ordered a trace on all calls made from that phone in the last 24 hours. One had been to Repton and on duplicating the call, he’d learned that Paul Stafford, a SAS Captain, had been a patient there for some time and had been released only two years ago. Arrangements to attend the facility as a day patient had fallen through when Stafford didn’t turn up and subsequently vanished.

What he didn’t know, was why his agent had been chasing up a SAS Captain who’d been committed after having some sort of breakdown. And what it had to do with Doyle. But he’d find out.

Murphy accompanied him as he pushed open the door. Gordon looked up and quickly wiped a sleeve over his brow.

“Mr Gordon, we meet again,” Cowley said pleasantly.

“Look, I don’t know who this bloke is, I keep telling you lot...”

“The tip off you gave my men led to one of them nearly being killed.” Cowley said sternly. “I don’t take kindly to my men being set up Mr Gordon.”

Gordon’s mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish.

“Now, what I do want to know, is how you were contacted, what you’d done to put the word out, and why your boss, one of the more, shall we say… influential men on the streets, does not know who this contact is?”

No one could argue with George Cowley when he put on that tone of voice and Gordon was no exception.

“O’Malley put out the word that we wanted the false tip offs to stop, or he was going to take steps. This bloke came to me and told me his boss wanted to give some information on it.”

“And you met with his boss?”

“Yeah.” 

“What did he look like?” The voice was sharper.

“God, dark hair, blue eyes, tall. Military.”

“Military?”

Gordon shrugged. “He seemed to give orders, you know, like he’d been in the army or something.”

“Now it begins to make sense.” Cowley looked up. “Murphy, get on to Bodie’s old units, see what you can find on this Paul Stafford.”

 

***

**Chapter 12**

 

Bodie felt the man slide onto the bar stool next to him but he didn’t look up from his untouched drink until a voice said. “Come with me.”

He slid his eyes sideways and saw an unremarkable man, medium height, mousy hair, pale blue eyes. A man you’d pass by in the street without looking twice. A man that was also extremely nervous, judging by the flicking, never still eyes and sheened upper lip.

Standing up, he obediently followed the man to the door. He was led around the corner to a dirty alley, to a black Bedford van with three men lounging against it. His eyes tightened.

These men were not the same calibre as the man he’d followed from the pub. Stafford was running true to form. The three would have made good mercenaries, tough, hard, no nonsense types, the sort hired solely for their ability and lack of conscience. Nothing but the best, they would do their job, collect the pay and proceed to the next assignment, no questions asked. 

As he’d expected, he was patted down thoroughly and expertly, his gun and pocket knife immediately confiscated. Also as expected, the lining of his clothes was searched for electronic equipment, the buttons of his shirt opened, chest and back examined for wires, legs kicked apart, hands impersonally but intimately moulding against his flesh, seeking the small, hard plastic bugs of detection. Finally satisfied, he was herded into the rear of the van, accompanied by one of the thugs and the little nervous man, the former producing an assault rifle from under a canvas sheet and holding it with a proficient expertise. 

The ride was short, to a back street in Stepney, littered with dustbins and graffiti. The small nervous man alighted from the vehicle, visible relief clear on his face. He indicated a door to a dirty grey tenement and Bodie arched a brow. 

“You’re to go inside and wait,” the man said, before turning abruptly and walking away down the street.

Bodie found himself in a sparsely furnished flat, accompanied by one of the armed men, who stood just inside the door, his weapon pointed and ready. An M16, Bodie noted almost clinically before looking around. A round table and four chairs drew his eyes, simply because a telephone was placed squarely in the middle of it. He didn’t investigate the other rooms, but the tiny flat appeared empty and unused, as he’d suspected. Instead he sat at the table and waited, accustomed to Stafford’s methods of intimidation. 

 

***

 

Alfie Talbot was utterly relieved this job was finally over. The deal had unnerved him to the point where he decided to be a bit more selective in his choice of clients from now on. No more nutters, he promised himself fervently, no matter how good the money was. In fact, he had a good mind to take a well earned holiday. South of Spain maybe. 

The instruction to interact with his target had panicked him dreadfully, his expertise lay in surveillance, not actual confrontation and he still felt quite shaky. Desperately needing some alcoholic fortification, he trotted down Whitechapel Road, intent on his local, a place to both relax and pick up business, and not too far from the flat where he’d finally performed the last task set by his client. 

Tourists swarmed, gawking at locations from the Ripper murders and Talbot unobtrusively sidled past them, unassuming, attracting little attention and it was with a happy sigh that he pushed open the doors of the Dog and Crown and entered its dim interior. Now, to go back to some proper stalking for honest crooks.

The sudden silence at his entrance warned him; Mary the barmaid looking up, her mouth opening in consternation sealed it. He wasn’t quick enough. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him around and he blinked in confusion at the silhouette framing the door. 

“You took some tracking down boyo,” came the thick Irish tones of Patrick O’Malley as he stepped into the room. Short, stocky, eyes a piercing light blue, hair the fiery red commonly found across the Irish sea, he was a good looking man with a shrewd mind for business, even if his business happened to be mostly illegal.

Talbot’s belly, so recently settled, began to churn again. He was turned and propelled ungently into an empty booth, quiet, dim and private. Two burley men slid in on each side of him and two more stood in front of the table, facing the rest of the room. O’Malley sat opposite and gazed at him intently, the light blue eyes assessing and very startling in the dim light.

“You’ve got yourself into a pickle me lad, make no mistake about it,” O’Malley began, leaning back and placing one arm casually across the back of the bench seat. “Trouble is now, your little pickle has also got my lads involved as well. CI5 are after you.”

Talbot was appalled. How in god’s name had they found out? No one had ever traced him before. He licked dry lips, wondering whether he was required to give a reply when O’Malley spoke again. 

“And unfortunately me lad, you are leading them to me. And I don’t like them interfering in my business, nabbing my boys and keeping them from their work.” He leaned back in his seat and signalled the barmaid, before returning his attention to Talbot. “I’ve heard some good things about you, Alfie. You’re good at your job, make no bones about it. And I could use a man with your talent. Tis not an easy thing, to tail a couple of CI5 blokes and not have them spot you. Not easy at all, yet you managed it, didn’t you? Well you nearly did. They did spot you in the end, but you were clever enough to prevent them from identifying you, weren’t you?” 

Talbot waited, feeling sweat break out across his back and upper lip, could smell it, rancid on his skin. The booth was warm and the men beside him wore jackets, a good sign they were armed. He squirmed uncomfortably, but O’Malley wasn’t finished.

“So I’ve got a choice here me lad, you understand. I need to get Cowley off my back. Not good for business having CI5’s lads hanging around and harassing my boys. So either I hand you over to them and you’ll take the rap and a prison sentence. Or…” he paused to accept the small glass of whisky Mary placed in front of him, “you tell me what they need to know and I’ll pass it on.” Satisfied with his offer he leaned back expectantly.

Talbot had gone cold at the mention of prison, but he’d gone even colder at the crime lord’s offer. “And what do I owe you, for helping me out?” he asked, already knowing the answer and helplessly sinking deeper into the mire he’d stumbled unwittingly into.

“Well then. You work for me is all,” the Irishman said genially. “Could use a man of your talents now, couldn’t I? You can start with your client. And why he felt the need to give CI5 false tip offs.”

His freelance days over, Alfie Talbot felt the mire close over his head and drown him.

 

***

 

Bodie had been sitting for nearly two hours, his patience near gone before the phone finally rang.

“Good boy, no tail that we can see. Your partner will thank you for that.”

“Where is he?”

“Such devotion. I don’t trust you, Bodie. Are you bugged? Do you have a tracking device hidden about your person? Are you liaising secretly with your boss? Your partner won’t thank you for it. Bit by bit, Bodie.”

“No, damn you.” Bodie hissed in utter frustration. “Doyle has nothing to do with you, or what happened. It’s me you want, let him go and you can have me.”

“There is only one thing I want, and you know it.” The voice was suddenly full of hate and Bodie was abruptly fearful for his partner’s safety. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell me where Doyle is first?”

“You are hardly in a position to make demands.” 

Bodie clutched the phone tighter. “I won’t bargain over a dead man. Either I see Doyle alive, or I’m gone and the police can have you.”

He waited and for one awful moment, thought he had pushed too far. Then mercifully the voice continued.

“The man that is with you. Put him on.”

Bodie stood up and held the receiver out to his guard. The M16 stayed conscientiously pointed in his direction while the thug listened in silence, before placing the receiver back in the cradle. 

“Time to go,” he told Bodie curtly and gestured with his weapon for the operative to return to the street. The van was still there, the other thug standing at the open passenger door, watching his approach with incurious eyes. The driver was seated inside, one hand on the wheel, his head leaning out of the open car window listening to someone on the other side. As Bodie neared the rear sliding door he caught a glimpse of several men, but the one that caught his eye was short, stocky, red haired and familiar. But before he could lay a name to the face, he was pushed roughly into the vehicle, his escort with the M16 following. The driver abruptly finished his low voiced conversation with the visitors and wound up the window.

The journey was longer this time, twisting and turning in a successful attempt to throw his sense of direction, although he knew instinctively he was still in London. The blindfold they’d tied around his eyes itched and smelt faintly of diesel. Bodie sat quite still against the rocking of the vehicle, his hands loose on his knees, silent. None of the three men in the van spoke either, confirming his belief that they were just hired thugs. 

Knowing Doyle’s life depended on his cooperation he made no plans to overpower his captors. Instead he endured the journey, mentally preparing himself to face an adversary he hadn’t seen for years. An adversary whose deteriorating mental condition had caused his brilliant career to crash and burn at a relatively young age. How many times had Bodie seen Stafford’s method of interrogation, the fear he put into his victims to get what he wanted. That last job on Lake Constance, the young girl he’d used against the Austrian. She hadn’t just lost a lock of hair. And neither would Doyle. 

The vehicle swayed and Bodie caught a faint smell of the Thames over the diesel fumes, but the van showed no sign of slowing down. His thoughts went back to Lake Constance. He’d reported Stafford after that one, the girl’s screams still ringing in his ears for months afterwards. It had been the beginning of an exhausting enquiry, one that had ended at Repton. But for some reason Stafford had since been released and Doyle had been right. It _was_ a personal vendetta.

The van suddenly slowed, turned sharply and stopped. 

“Leave the blindfold on,” one of the men ordered and the noise of the van door sliding registered, before his arm was grasped and he was pulled stumbling out and onto uneven ground. He put his hands out automatically to feel his way, but the thug remained at his side and kept a firm grip on him. 

Listening intently, he heard muted traffic on a busy road somewhere and orchestra music, rising and falling in volume on the breeze. Some sort of classical piece, Doyle would know it for sure. He could smell cut grass, the odour of the river, the afternoon sun warm on his head. The music died down and the heavy sound of applause chased it, accompanied by cheers and whistles and then muffled words from a loudspeaker. Bodie tilted his head, the better to hear it. Something fairly close, if it was coming on the brief spurts of breeze. The muzzle of a weapon prodded him in the back and clumsily he moved forwards.

The outside world abruptly silenced with the closing of a door and Bodie was released, although he could sense the presence of the men who had escorted him in. He wasn’t alone. He waited, listening attentively and finally the blindfold was tugged off. He stood blinking in the suddenly bright light of an entranceway. 

A man stood opposite him, unsmiling, stern, austere. Once they could have been mistaken for brothers. But not anymore, Bodie thought. His first impression was that the years hadn’t been kind to him, his once black hair now beginning to grey around the temples, his face worn, deep creases beside a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. But the eyes… those dark blue eyes still burned with a fanatical madness that had a young girls screams echoing in his nightmares for years.

Paul Stafford looked him up and down and said just three words. “Long time, Sergeant.”

 

***

The intense cold had kept him awake most of the night, although he’d logically tried to doze, knowing he’d need to be alert when something happened. His body shivered uncontrollably and Doyle could do little to prevent it, unable to move enough to generate body heat. He lay in the utter blackness, hearing his own breath, shallow and rapid and wriggled as much as he could, tucking his legs up under his chin and flexing his ankles. His feet were numb and he had a very real worry that he’d be unable to stand on them when he was finally allowed up. 

Gradually the utter blackness had evolved into shadows, still too dim to make out, but he realised the sun had risen. The shadows sharpened slowly into shapes, large and small and Doyle’s dilated eyes squinted trying to recognise his surroundings. He was starting to feel a bit feverish and wondered if he was imagining things. Thirst was beginning to be a problem as well, the residues of the drug still lingering in the recesses of his throat. No one had come and he hadn’t heard a sound apart from the occasional distant throb of a boat motor. The thought crossed his mind that he may be left here indefinitely to die.

***

 

“Where is he?” 

“Oh, quite safe.” Paul Stafford reached for a packet of cigarettes and politely offered one, to which Bodie declined. “For the moment.”

“As safe as Pamela Drew I suppose,” Bodie shot back, anger ever present under his cool exterior. “As safe as John Bambrick. It was you, wasn’t it? Murdered Bambrick.”

Stafford paused while he lit his cigarette. “You were extremely difficult to track down Bodie. Expect your organisation is responsible for that. Confidential tags on anything I managed to find after you left the service. Hadn’t a hope of finding you officially, so I had to resort to unofficial means.”

Bodie was livid. “You knew I’d go to the funeral.” 

“Of course. I had to lure you out of your lair somehow. Loyalty was your speciality Bodie.” Stafford inhaled with an addict’s satisfaction. “Except with me of course. With me it was different. You went behind my back. I trusted you and you betrayed that trust, you reported me.”

That madness was there again, the violence shimmering close under the surface and Bodie’s uneasiness grew, knowing that Doyle was hostage to that violence. “You went too far, Stafford. That girl, she was a total innocent. She had nothing to do with Holzheimer’s activities.”

“She was his granddaughter. It’s a hard world out there Bodie, and it calls for hard measures. The old man wouldn’t have talked without that leverage.”

“You went too far,” Bodie snarled. “You ruined her life.”

“He would have ruined far more, had his gas succeeded. One girl against a thousand people? Mere pawns in war,” Stafford shot back. “There was no choice.”

“There were other ways. You didn’t have to torture her. You didn’t have to enjoy torturing her.” And that was what it was, what it had all come down to. The enjoyment of maiming a life. Bodie felt suddenly sad. Once he would never have had this conversation with this man. “What happened to you Paul? What happened to the bloke I was best man for? When did you start getting off on violence, causing pain to others?”

“They deserved it,” and that maniacal gleam was there again. “They deserved to feel pain.”

And Bodie finally realised that his one time friend wasn’t cured. Probably would never be cured, that his mind was unhinged, broken and that broken mind was bent on revenge. “What do you want Paul?”

“Want? Why my family of course. Only you know where they are, isn’t that right? While they had me up on charges, you spirited them away, turned them against me.”

Bodie watched him, wary, careful, “What the hell does this have to do with Doyle?” 

“Has it been so long, to have forgotten how it is?” Stafford inhaled, staring intently at his former friend, enjoying his anger. “Leverage Sergeant. Oh we both know I could torture you for a month of Sundays and you still wouldn’t tell me. But you do have your weak spot Bodie, don’t you? So we’ll trade eh? Your partner, unharmed, for my family.” 

Bodie didn’t believe that for a minute. “I want to see him.” 

Stafford looked at him and smoked silently.

“I told you I won’t bargain for a corpse.” Bodie stated bluntly. “Show me he’s alive, or any deal you want to make is off.”

For a minute he thought Stafford was going to refuse. But then, with a curt gesture to the two armed men to follow, he led Bodie through the house. 

Decorated in a vague art deco style, it had an abandoned air to it, as though it had been unlived in for some time. The rooms were cluttered and thick with dust, claustrophobically dim with heavy drapes covering the windows. A hallway finally deposited them into a large old fashioned kitchen, complete with an ancient wood fuelled cooker and a well scrubbed, large table. A solid oak door in the outer wall gave an accurate impression that the original house was much older than the newer additions he’d just passed through. Stafford opened the door and beckoned, careful to keep out of reach, respectful of his detainee’s capabilities. 

Bodie found himself at the top of a set of stairs leading down to darkness, which was abruptly banished with a flick of the light switch. He started down, apprehension threatening his determination to stay calm. At the bottom of the stairs there was another door and he was instructed to open it, surprised to find himself in front of an antique motor launch, sitting on a cradle in a dim, barely lit, windowless boatshed. What little light there was, came solely from small holes in the roof, even the access to the river was sealed up, the planking extending down well below high tide mark. He could hear the lap of water, could smell the river, could dimly make out rotting lifejackets, peeling canoes, splintered oars hanging on walls. And littering the old decking, cages, at least twenty of them in various shapes and sizes. 

Gazing through the poor light, he very nearly missed his partner and it was only the bright white of the cast that drew his eyes back to the curled, crouching figure shivering in one of the smaller cages next to the sloping ramp that led into the river. Relief and concern clashed; Doyle, at least was alive, but at what cost?

Ignoring the three men behind him he walked swiftly over to his partner and squatted down by the cage. “Are you all right?”

Doyle couldn’t move much, the cage was small, designed to hold a small animal, not a fully grown man. Shivering alarmingly, he was also barefoot and severely underdressed in a thin T-shirt and faded well worn jeans. 

Feverish green-blue eyes blinked up at him and Doyle managed through chattering teeth to mutter, “friends with some right nutters, you.” 

Bodie didn’t disagree. But he refrained from telling Doyle just how mad Stafford actually was. And what he was capable of.

Stafford was getting restless “As you can see, he’s fine. For now.”

“He won’t be for much longer if you leave him here,” Bodie snarled, standing up abruptly. Doyle was gripping the bars of his prison with his good hand, trying to control the shudders wracking his body and Bodie was enraged that he was unable to stand upright. “The deal was unharmed Stafford. Why have you got him in here?”

“Mad she was, my aunt.” Stafford said conversationally, looking around at the contents of the boatshed. “Spent a good part of her youth in Africa and India shooting and capturing animals.” He indicated the cages with one hand. “Brought back live specimens, many of which ended up in a zoo somewhere. Terrible hoarder though, couldn’t bear to throw anything out. Then in her senile years, she thought everyone was out to thieve everything she owned, so she turned the place into Fort Knox. Not even Houdini could get in here.” He looked directly at Bodie. “He couldn’t get out either.”

The cigarette flicked from his fingers to land on the floor by Doyle’s cage. “Though why she thought that anyone would want to steal anything in this mouldy old shed…” He looked around in distaste. 

“Let him out of the cage,” Bodie demanded fiercely.

Stafford finally turned the full force of his madness on his one time friend. “And give you all the time in the world to spirit my family further away? I don’t think so Bodie. Bit by bit, remember?”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a key, which he tossed to one of the two men standing guard with the M16’s, the one that had accompanied him into the poky little flat. The driver, Bodie noticed, had not accompanied them inside, instead staying with the vehicle. “Put him in the other cage now, Bellamy, wind and tide wait for no man.”

Bellamy sidled around Bodie while the second thug took his position, weapon trained, ready. Bodie watched in confusion as the padlock was opened and the inhabitant gestured out with the muzzle of the assault rifle. Doyle emerged stiffly from his prison, straightening with a small groan. Bellamy didn’t relax one iota, his finger on the trigger as he indicated that Doyle should walk towards the ramp. And that’s when Bodie saw it. The other cage, a bit larger than the rest, sitting at an angle on the lower end of the ramp against the sealed off entrance to the river. It was bedecked with bits of weed, and the wood panelling surrounding it showed a dark stain in an almost perfect line, a high tide mark. And the mark was higher than the cage. It hit Bodie then, what Stafford intended to do.

“No,” he made an instinctive move towards Doyle and a warning burst of fire at his feet from the second thug halted him immediately.

But Doyle, never slow on the uptake had already launched into action. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction he’d instinctively struck out with the only weapon he had available, the heavy cast on his right arm. It hit the tightly held M16 full on, sending it flying from Bellamy’s grasp and across the old planks towards the boat, his arm continuing on to strike Bellamy with some force square under the jaw, sending the big man staggering backwards. 

However, Doyle had severely underestimated the cost of such an action. The cast cracked with the force he’d used, shattering at the point of impact. Pain screamed, lancing white hot agony along his arm, right to his shoulder and he collapsed to his knees white faced and sick to the stomach, his vision pinching at the edges. Plaster crumbled to the rotting deck, and as he cradled his arm to his chest, a large chunk detached and fell with a soft thud, dimly displaying the penned inscription, _to pull the birds_. 

Bodie’s follow up action was halted immediately by Doyle’s anguished cry of pain and he automatically turned to the aid of his partner. Stafford brought him up short, stepping quickly forward and holding a Webley 35mm to Doyle’s bowed head. 

“Now that was foolish,” Stafford said icily, before deliberately kicking Doyle’s injured arm. Another cry tore from his partner’s throat, and if possible his face whitened further, before the pain overwhelmed him and he slumped bonelessly to the deck.

“Bastard,” Bodie whispered, eyes burning intently on his unconscious partner. “You do him now Stafford and you won’t ever find your family.”

Stafford turned cold blue eyes on his adversary. They stared at each other for some time before the ex SAS Captain inclined his head, accepting the truth of that. Instead he ensured that Bodie was well guarded by the recovering Bellamy and the second thug before grabbling Doyle by his uninjured arm and dragging him to the ramp and the second cage installed there. Bodie watched with impotent rage as his partner was hauled inside and Stafford reached for the padlock. 

“Time to take me to my family Bodie.” He turned his head and saw the mutinous expression on the operatives face. “No? You won’t? Then we have several hours to play don’t we, before the tide comes in? I have toys upstairs, a car battery and some leads, that’s an interesting thing to watch, especially as the water comes up. I have a whip as well and the river here just might have enough salt in it to smart a bit. What about the needle Bodie, you remember that, long enough to pierce a retina, your partner would look good with a white cane…”

“Enough.” Bodie roared, so furious, he nearly couldn’t speak. A pulse jumped in his cheek as he imagined all these things done to Doyle, helpless to stop it, as he’d been unable to stop what had been done to that Austrian girl. “I’ll take you to them. But you won’t like the reception.”

“That’s my business.” Stafford lifted the lock to snap it shut.

“Wait,” Bodie ordered. “I want to make sure he’s all right first.”

Again Stafford hesitated, his gaze penetrating, trying to read Bodie’s intent. 

“I won’t bargain for a dead man,” Bodie reiterated.

Stafford shrugged, appearing suddenly bored. “By all means, time isn’t my priority after all.”

He stepped away from Doyle, and gestured with his handgun. Bodie stooped to enter the cage and looked around, studying the enclosure intently, seeking potential weak spots. Silt lay on the ramp under the bars, wet and glistening, coating Doyle’s white Tshirt with grubby streaks. He glanced up and saw something faintly shining, caught in a thin beam of sunlight from a broken tile on the roof. He reached up and pulled strands of long blond hair free. Pamela. He let the strands fall to the muddy floor, murderous rage nearly obliterating rational thought. Then a low groan of pain cut through his moment of fury, Doyle was coming round. He crouched down beside his partner and quickly examined him. Doyle’s face was still pale, blood speckling his lip where he had bitten it. 

“Easy sunshine.” His fingers gently explored Doyle’s right arm, dismayed to see that the shattered remains of the cast barely supported the broken bone now; the pain would be difficult to manage, difficult to stay conscious through and he needed him to stay conscious. He helped Doyle to a sitting position and pushed his unruly hair back from his forehead. Glazed eyes gazed up at him. 

Bodie smiled reassuringly, and cupped Ray’s face lightly with one hand while keeping up a soothing monologue. Surreptitiously he dropped the other hand to his ankle, keeping the movement natural, his upraised knee blocking it from his audience, while his eyes stayed steadily on his partner. He was aware of Stafford moving closer, watching him, knew Stafford was clued in to most of the tricks in the book. He’d have to be very, very careful. 

“Got to go now Ray,” he said gently as he transferred both hands to the broken cast, running his fingers under the edge, testing the strength of the remaining plaster. “Going to take Stafford to his family. They’re out near Tommy McKay, over near Windsor. You remember where Tommy is, don’t you Ray?”

Doyle’s eyes were so glazed with pain and his breathing so shallow, Bodie thought for a minute that his partner was going to pass out again. He tucked his fingers under the cast, feeling cold clammy skin, so unlike Doyle’s usual warmth and said urgently, “Ray?”

“Yes,” Doyle slurred finally. “I remember.”

“You’re wasting time Bodie.” A prod with the handgun aided him to his feet, and he cast a final look at Doyle propped against the bars, like a broken, cast off rag toy, in the sludge of the Thames. Water was already seeping under the planking. The tide was coming in.

“Got your water wings sunshine?” he said bleakly. “You’re going to need them.” 

But Doyle’s eyes were closed, and Stafford suspicious, looked the operative over carefully. Bodie waited, his face carefully blank, although inside he was panicking. Had his sleight of hand been detected? Stafford knew he’d been searched, his weapons and knife removed, and yet the ex SAS Captain lingered, eyes darting distrustfully over Doyle’s prone figure. Finally he conceded that there was nothing Doyle could use to gain his freedom and he shut and locked the gate.

“I’ll be back mate,” Bodie promised but was disheartened when Doyle failed to respond.

 

***

 

**Chapter 13**

 

The blindfold was back over his eyes before the outside door opened. Stafford was taking no chances, giving orders.

“Bellamy, you stay here.” His voice took on a hard tone. “Any funny business, anything at all…kill his partner.”

Bodie stiffened immediately but they were already ushering him across the ground. Again that orchestral music floated on the breeze and Bodie strained to identify it and where it was coming from, before the low throbbing noise of a large aircraft drowned it out. Near Heathrow? He tried to think of the flight paths along the river and how low the aircraft travelled as he was bundled into the back of the van.

“Windsor,” Stafford ordered as the van started up. 

Bodie raised his voice. “And step on it.”

The blindfold came off when they were on the motorway and Bodie saw the driver’s eyes flick to him in the rear vision mirror. The second thug sat in the passenger seat, but Stafford lounged opposite him, gun in fist, smugly satisfied that he had Bodie right where he wanted him.

“Windsor?” he mused, thumb rubbing the barrel lazily. “Why would she go there? Unless it was to her cousin Dee, but I’ve already checked that. Dee moved away.”

Bodie stayed silent, his thoughts on his partner, his plans gone awry. He hadn’t counted on Bellamy being left on guard duty and Doyle was in no fit state to fight him, in fact, after incurring the additional damage to the broken arm and the unbearable pain that accompanied it, Bodie was more worried that Doyle may not stay conscious at all. 

Adrenaline surged, bringing with it a faint sickness and involuntarily he looked at his watch. He had no idea what time high tide was, or how fast it came in. But there was no doubt it was surging in and Doyle undeniably trapped in its path. 

Bodie pondered on Stafford’s intentions; reasonably certain that the man had no intention of letting Doyle go at all. He’d wanted to hurt, to lash out and what better way to do it? To kill Doyle outright would hurt far more than any punishment to Bodie himself, but to torture him to death would be agony. Yet Doyle, as far as he could see, hadn’t been touched. So, Stafford was either biding his time until he got what he wanted, then he’d return to the house and begin his fun, or he was unsure of Bodie’s loyalty and was testing it. Doyle’s confinement, at the mercy of tide was merely to ensure his ongoing good behaviour and speedy obedience, and Bellamy left behind to enforce it. The unwelcome enlightenment made him fume inwardly, what if the destination had been Scotland? 

The van suddenly slowed down and he raised his head, knowing it was far too soon to have arrived.

“Traffic,” Stafford said mildly and smiled when Bodie gritted his teeth. “Well it is summer, after all.”

 

***

 

It was water that finally brought Doyle from his pain filled daze. Cold, wet and dirty, it crept along his knee, soaking his jeans, bringing an icy chill to his already cold thighs. He roused himself painfully, mindful of his arm and gazed down, blinking in the gloomy atmosphere. Water swirled under the planking, entering the cage, creeping steadily up the ramp. He scuttled backwards, towards the upper slope, out of the water, feet skidding in the silt. 

His arm throbbed, something sharp digging in beside his wrist bone. Doyle gritted his teeth against it and looked around. He was alone, the light fading, the random holes in the tiled room signifying late afternoon. Panic seized him for an instant, before he remembered his partner. Bodie had said he’d come back for him and Doyle knew nothing short of a bullet would stop him. He eyed the black oily water in revulsion, trying to judge how long he had before it was higher than the cage, higher than his accessible air. 

Not liking that morbid direction at all, he deliberately forced his attention to Stafford and the hatred he seemed to bear his partner. That fact that Stafford seemed to be able to accurately predict Bodie’s reactions, clearly told Doyle they’d known each other once. Well enough to believe the hatred hadn’t always been there. Yet something had happened, again in Bodie’s secretive, murky past, to irreversibly change it. Doyle had sensed, in the brief exchange between his partner and his captor that Stafford wasn’t all that sane and the bullet stopping Bodie’s return now seemed a good deal more likely, out there with a gun toting, hate filled maniac, and no one to mind his back. 

The sharp pain dug in his wrist again as he shifted and irritated, he reached under the remnants of the broken cast, seeking to smooth away the bit of plaster causing the hurt. Instead his fingers encountered something slim and metallic. Puzzled he drew it out and found a lock pick in his hand. Eyes widening, he suddenly recalled a vague impression of Bodie’s fingers, stroking his wrist, ascertaining the damage …and secreting the lockpick within. 

He looked at it dubiously in his left hand and then glanced at his right, the cast still intact around the base of his thumb and across his palm. Doyle’s left hand was strong and he used it far more than a normal right handed person, however picking a lock was a dainty exercise, requiring a steady grip and deft fingers - not to mention the added problem of keeping a dangling padlock still in order to carry out the task. 

Another wet swirl of water reminded him he was wasting time and he shuffled over to the door of the cage, reaching for the padlock, trying to turn it to see the base. His right hand, with the bulky cast across his palm and wrist wouldn’t flex enough to grasp it. Doyle swore softly and transferred the slim metal rod to his right hand but his fingers were unable close competently to manipulate it and he dropped it into the rising water at his feet. Falling to his knees he felt around in the slushy silt and located the rod, wiping it clean on his shirt. This time he kept it in his left hand and reached for the lock with his right, laying it loose across his wrist. Shaking with cold, he tried to insert the slim end of the rod, but the lock skittered away, his fingers closing uselessly, sending tendrils of pain along connecting tendons. Glaring at both hands he bit back another swear word, acknowledging the problem. His right hand wouldn’t bend through the bars - he needed to get rid of the plaster around his wrist, to give it the agility to grasp the lock. 

Leaning back, he looked at his arm in despair, knowing what he’d have to do and sick to the stomach at the thought. There was no choice, not if he wanted to live. Tucking the lockpick into his pocket carefully, so as not to lose it, he took several deep breaths to steady himself and calm his heart rate. Then, closing his eyes, he swung his arm as hard as he could against the bars, allowing the still solid plaster near his wrist to connect. 

Agony shot with scarlet claws through his limb and Doyle fell back with a loud cry, before clamping his jaw shut. His vision swirled as he fought his body’s response to shut down, the ache inciting the already present nausea to rise up until he felt like it was choking him. Breathing in short painful gasps, he squinted at the cast, at the insufficient crack in the still intact plaster and could have wept when he realised he’d have to do it again. Before he lost his nerve completely, he took several fortifying breaths and swung his arm again, repeating the manoeuvre, but this time he didn’t see if he was successful. Slumped against the bars of his prison he didn’t see the tide creeping higher. In fact Doyle’s eyes remained closed and he didn’t see anything for quite some time.

 

***

 

George Cowley had been to Repton several times over his life, to visit former colleagues, to check on the status of burned out operatives, to seek expertise on a subject he knew little about.

Dr Richard Ashton was a leading expert on post traumatic stress and he had treated Captain Paul Stafford in the first two years of his admittance. The warm sunny weather continued and they walked together down a path beneath a rose trellis, the blood red blooms filling the late afternoon air with their sweet perfume.

Cowley did not understand the technical and psychological reasons why a distinguished Captain of the SAS suddenly developed a liking to inflicting pain and quite frankly wasn’t interested. The damage had been done and it was not his job to correct it. It was his job, however to prevent harm to the public as a result of this damage.

“What would he want with my men?” He asked, interrupting Ashton’s animated description of electrical currents in the brain.

Ashton looked at him, shrewd eyes assessing. “Well that would depend on what your men have that he wants.” He pushed his hand in his pocket and looked absently at the roses surrounding them. “Your man Bodie reported Stafford to his superiors at the end of their last assignment together. He was disturbed, not by the methods Stafford used to get the job done, but by his obvious enjoyment and inventiveness while doing it. The SAS train their men very thoroughly Major. It is not a game to them, and they know exactly how much force is needed to get what they want. In Stafford’s case, he seemed to go beyond the necessary force, even when he had received his information. He is an interesting case.”

“Indeed?” Cowley replied dryly. “So why Doyle? His argument is with Bodie, why would he take Doyle?”

“I can’t answer that,” Ashton answered shrugging slightly. “A girlfriend, someone Bodie cares about, yes, I can see Stafford using her to punish Bodie. Stafford always maintained that humans hurt more for ones dear to them, than they do for themselves. What mother wouldn’t drown to save her child? What husband wouldn’t brave a burning house to save his wife? And if they fail, the subsequent grief and guilt can almost finish them off. Stafford knew that and employed it ruthlessly. As Bodie no doubt told you?”

Cowley’s face darkened, but he didn’t enlighten the doctor to his wilful agent’s silence on the subject of Captain Paul Stafford. “And is he good, this Stafford?”

“The best,” Ashton affirmed. “He’d leave nothing to chance, no stone unturned. Thoroughly investigate every possible angle to ensure victory. And he’d not hesitate to kill his hostage if anyone tried to outsmart him.”

“Then why was he released?” Cowley demanded in exasperation.

“Budget cuts mainly.” The doctor admitted ruefully. “This hospital is for the rehabilitation of serving British armed forces. Stafford had been discharged from the SAS and therefore no longer on active duty. It was thought his need for violence would no longer dominate his thinking if deprived of a suitable target.”

Cowley stopped and faced the psychiatrist. “Well it seems, Doctor, that he has found a new target.”

 

***

 

The traffic crawled and Bodie’s temper simmered in the oppressive heat of the stuffy van. On edge, he fidgeted, quite unlike his usual cool demeanour and he dearly wanted to smash that smug look from Stafford’s face. An hour passed before the pace picked up again with no indication of what had caused the snarl up and eventually the signs appeared for Windsor. Bodie leaned forward and directed them away from the town itself, out to a smaller adjoining village. A church spire appeared, stabbing heavenward from a small copse of trees and the driver of the van followed his commands to turn left, or right, until they pulled up at a sizeable tree filled cemetery adjoining the church. 

“No tricks Bodie,” Stafford warned, as they alighted, the lazy smugness gone. He was all business again, knowing perhaps better than anyone, apart from Doyle and Cowley what Bodie was capable of. “You still don’t know where your partner is.”

Bodie looked at the other two men. The driver stared back at him intently and Bodie saw him tighten his grip on his M16. His spine prickled warningly before he switched his gaze back to Stafford. And that gaze was suddenly sharp and hard. “And you don’t know where your family is; only I do.” 

He turned his back on the three men and began to walk, skirting fallen and upright stones alike.

“One of you stay with the van,” Stafford ordered and slipped the safety catch off the revolver before following Bodie, keeping him at arms length. The driver trailed after them, keeping well back, eyes peeled for witnesses, the majority of his M16 hidden in his jacket.

The cemetery was peaceful, quiet, as most cemeteries are. The trees were lush and green, the wind sighing softly through them as he made his way unerringly between the grey stone guardians of the dead. It wasn’t raining, but Bodie was reminded of Bambrick’s funeral nonetheless. It had all started with a funeral and one way or another, it was sure as hell going to end with one as well. His or Doyle’s? Maybe both. He’d done what he could, given Doyle a chance, and the instructions to find him should things go wrong.

“Where are you going?” Stafford demanded from behind him. “I’m warning you, no tricks or your partner…”

“My partner what?” Bodie snarled spinning abruptly and Stafford suddenly wary raised his handgun. “You had no intention of freeing Doyle. Don’t take me for a fool Stafford, we’re both dead men, you know it, I know it.”

Stafford stared at him guardedly. “Then why?”

Bodie stood in the warm afternoon sunshine and stared back, readying himself. “Why are we here?” He balanced his feet, waiting for an opportunity, any opportunity to snatch the weapon away from the man and somehow get back to Doyle. “I said I would take you to your family, for Doyle’s life. Unlike you I’m delivering.”

Stafford looked around and his finger tightened on the trigger. “You’re lying. Why are we here?” 

Bodie didn’t move, just stared at the man, keeping his face very carefully blank, making sure Stafford couldn’t read his very real fear for his partner. “You wanted your family back.” He gestured savagely at the tombstone in front of him. “Well here they are.”

Stafford tore his eyes reluctantly from Bodie and down to the words carved in the simple white stone by Bodie’s legs. _Helen Louise Stafford, Conor Adam Stafford_.

Bodie watched him warily, just one chance and he’d take it, god knew he had nothing to lose.

For a minute Stafford didn’t say anything and Bodie couldn’t read his expression at all.

“It was raining and the taxi driver was drunk. Drove straight into an articulated lorry. They’ve been dead for years.”

Stafford raised disbelieving eyes to stare at him, his hand still steady on the revolver and Bodie felt sweat break out, totally unable to predict what he’d do.

“I’ve kept my side of the bargain.” he said harshly. “Now it’s your turn. Where is Doyle?”

“You were the cause of this.” Stafford whispered, and his eyes suddenly came alive, glittering with insane fury. “You took her away from me.”

“You drove her away,” Bodie shouted. “You nearly killed her, you nearly killed your son. If she’d stayed you would have done.”

Confusion suffused Stafford’s face briefly. “I loved her.”

“She loved you, but you still would have killed her.”

“She wouldn’t have left me if she loved me. That was your doing.” Stafford brought the gun up with lethal speed, but Bodie had been expecting the move. He was on Stafford in an instant, grappling for the weapon, even though he knew it was a slim chance. Not against someone like Stafford. But he had to try. He had to try for Doyle. 

A shot rang out, echoing between the stones.

 

***

 

His right arm was on fire, yet he couldn’t feel his legs, a bone chilling numbness creeping up from his toes to his midriff. Doyle’s eyes opened blearily, taking some time to become aware of his surroundings. Water lapped across his chest, rank and icy and his torso was a mass of goosebumps. He was leaning at an odd angle against the bars and took a moment to thank his lucky stars he hadn’t fallen prone when he’d passed out. 

Carefully, he brought his right arm up out of the water. The cast was a sodden mess, jagged pieces still clinging and dangling to the intact part near his elbow. But his wrist was free, and he used his left hand to carefully pluck the remaining pieces away to clear his thumb and palm. 

Experimenting, he brought thumb and index finger together, feeling the tendons working in his wrist, connecting to his forearm. The pain escalated again and he bit hard on his lip, but he could manoeuvre his hand enough to hold the padlock steady. Legs numb to the bone and not working properly, he shuffled back to the padlock. 

The tide had reached over half way now, the lock under water, the light almost gone. Doyle felt the beginnings of real fear. To crack a lock under these conditions was nigh impossible, never mind with an arm that felt like a swarm of bees had attacked it. His teeth were chattering, his left hand shaking as he reached for the metal rod in his jeans pocket and he settled himself carefully, braced against the bars, tilting his chin up to keep his mouth above water.

 

***

**Chapter 14**

 

George Cowley arrived at headquarters to find Murphy waiting for him. Twilight had turned the city of London into a glowing jewel but neither man noticed, intent on the information Murphy had uncovered during the course of the day.

“Was married sir, wife and son, both of who were killed while he was in for assessment at Repton. Buried out near Windsor, but…”

Cowley looked up. “But….Murphy?”

Murphy shrugged. “Not sure sir, something odd, I’m still checking that out. He owned a house with them in Surrey, it’s still in his name. Charlie and Benny went to check it out, it’s empty, neighbours say it hasn’t been lived in for some time. His parents died when he was young, his mother of cancer, his father committed suicide. There seems to be a family history of mental illness. He has no living siblings, he did have an elder brother who died in infancy. His mother was one of four sisters, two of who emigrated to Canada, the remaining one has dementia. His father had one sister, a Maude Stafford, best known for her animal conservation efforts in the early 30’s. She died in 1969, leaving a substantial estate.”

“Cousins?” Cowley asked digesting this information.

“Not that I can find sir. Well at least not here in the UK, he may have some in Canada.”

“What happened to Maude Stafford’s estate?”

“I’m still checking that out sir, but there was property as well as a sizable investment fund.”

“Well keep going man, she must have had a will, a solicitor. Find out if Stafford was her beneficiary and if so, the solicitor should have a contact, his address.”

“Yes sir.” 

Cowley entered his office and shut the door. Immediately the phone rang. He crossed to the desk and pressed the button to hear Betty’s calm voice. “Call for you sir, says he is Patrick O’Malley.”

“O’Malley?” Cowley’s brows rose in surprise. “Put him on.”

The soft Irish voice came down the phone line and Cowley pictured the man’s handsome face, from the photograph on their files. “Mr Cowley, I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all, O’Malley. I suppose you are wanting your lads back?”

“If you’d be so kind. I’ve fixed that little problem for you, there won’t be any more crank calls on CI5’s services.”

“Who was responsible?” Cowley asked the question out of curiosity, but thieves had their own law and he didn’t really expect an answer.

“I don’t know his name. I suspect in any case, he’s been using a false one, but I can give you the why. Seems he was luring your lads out. Two in particular, Mr Doyle and Mr Bodie, but he also wanted to know what all your agents looked like. Rather clever if you think about it. Set up a false tip off and wait to see who turns up, and he has a photo of each of your lads, identifiable, should the need arise.”

Cowley was impressed, despite himself. “Very clever. But you say you’ve put an end to it.”

“I have, as you requested. So you’ll be kindly letting my boys go now.”

The connection was abruptly terminated and Cowley thoughtfully replaced the receiver. One mystery solved, but it didn’t tell him where his lads were.

 

***

 

Pigeons flapped frantically into the air as the gunshot faded into the trees.

Stafford jerked against Bodie and his eyes widened. Bodie, with his hands around the weapon between them froze, knowing that it hadn’t gone off - if it had, he’d be as dead as a dodo - yet Stafford was sliding down his body, folding over himself, flopping with a finality across the grave of his family. 

Bodie hit the ground at almost the same time, rolling under cover behind the nearest monument, a large grey column with a naked cherub perched on top. He looked wildly around and spotted a man at the slight rise, a man that lowered his M16 back to his side and trotted away. It was the driver of the van. Stunned, Bodie didn’t know what to think. Why would Stafford’s own man gun him down, just like that? And then he remembered the red haired man. The one that had been talking to the driver back at the flat. And the red haired man’s identity finally clicked into place. Patrick O’Malley. What in God’s name had O’Malley got to do with this?

Confused and wary, Bodie waited until the driver disappeared from sight and then sprang from his hiding place for the Webley, which had fallen with Stafford. He spared a quick glance for his former Captain, but Stafford’s eyes were sightless, staring. His thoughts solely for Doyle now, Bodie wasted no time, haring back up the rise to the car park. He was just in time to see the van leaving the gate and merging into the passing traffic.

 _Shit, shit shit,_ Bodie swore inventively and looked around for inspiration. On the far side of the car park, a funeral was in progress, a group of mourners gathered around a man of the church. He sprinted towards it, eyes assessing the line of cars. All were blocked in behind the hearse, which stood majestically in the middle of the narrow lane, like a mother duck leading her ducklings. Bodie’s eyes narrowed speculatively. 

“So we commend to God, the soul of Francis James Giffney, and we pray that he will find peace in our Father’s holy embrace. It’s a sad fact of life that dangerous driving and fast cars do not mix….”

The sudden revving of an engine and the squealing of tyres interrupted the Reverend from his sermon and the congregation spun as one to the narrow lane beside the gravesite, just in time to witness the sober black hearse careening on two wheels out of the ornate iron gates, cutting off a mini and a lorry without apology and leaving a trail of flowers in its wake.

 

***

 

The tide lapped across his chin as Doyle strained to reach the elusive padlock and guide the metal rod into the locking mechanism. Countless times his numb fingers had dropped it and countless times he’d sunk down into the filthy water to blindly grope around in the silt, terrified it may have landed out of his grasp. But finally he’d managed to insert it into the locking mechanism and his right hand was clenched as tightly as he could around the padlock while his left manipulated the metal probe, desperate to feel the tiny click. 

Water splashed into his mouth, he inhaled and coughed and lost his grip on the padlock. Coughing fiercely he surged upright, smashing his head into the bars at the top of the cage. His right hand, caught between the bars wrenched, sending nauseating pain right through his body, but he kept his grip on the metal rod with his left. 

He was nearly out of room. 

Breathing shallowly, totally blind in the dark, he calmed himself with tremendous effort and again forced his right hand back through the bars, adjusting the remains of the plaster cast to fit and took a grip on the padlock. His neck ached, forced up at an unnatural angle to compensate for the height of the water. Gritting his teeth, he started again.

 

***

**Chapter 15**

“What’s your hurry mate, he’s already dead!” The irate voice, peeved about being cut off by a dangerously driven hearse, abruptly faded as Bodie floored the accelerator through the red light and took the junction to the motorway, hoping to god, the sentiment didn’t prove prophetic. 

Damn O’Malley, he’d obviously given the driver instructions to kill Stafford, thereby saving his neck. But why leave Doyle in the lurch? Unless he didn’t know Doyle was in the house - he hadn’t accompanied them inside after all, he’d stayed with the vehicle. But his actions, honourable or not had proven disastrous as Bodie hadn’t a clue where the house was. His first instinct had been to contact Cowley, get some sort of search happening along the river but that had been thwarted by the lack of phone boxes along his route back to London, and the one he did see was clearly vandalised. 

He drove at a breakneck speed down the motorway with scant regard for both the hearse and the traffic around him, mouth tight, eyes focused on the road, thoughts concentrating grimly on his partner trapped in that damn cage below the tide level in the darkening night. Why couldn’t Stafford have left him out of it, he thought savagely, feeling every inch of his partner’s ordeal. Doyle had nothing to do with their past. He was supposed to be at a concert for Gods sake, listening to that deathly Beethoven stuff he liked. Sitting on the banks of the Thames in the warm air drinking champagne. 

Suddenly, like a light going off, Bodie realised where the music had come from, that orchestral music he’d heard outside Stafford’s house. The benefit concert at Marble Hill Park - it had to be. There was nothing else to explain it. He hadn’t heard of any other open air concert in London, and there were few locations near the river big enough to hold one. 

He overtook a rusting volvo and tried to concentrate. The music had come on the breeze and the breeze had brushed his right cheek as he’d alighted from the van. Somewhere just upstream from the park, then. Still, it didn’t give him an address, but it had to be in Richmond somewhere. Surely there couldn’t be that many properties with a house right on the river, connecting with a boarded up boatshed.

His hand itched for a RT unit, longing to call Cowley to organise a proper search. The hearse was flying along, passing a volkswagon as though it was standing still and Bodie risked leaning to flip open the glovebox. Surely there’d have to be one… yes, the A to Z fell out onto the floor accompanied by a stack of business cards.

 

***

 

“Richmond sir,” Murphy held a sheaf of papers in his hands as Cowley hung up the phone and quirked a querying eyebrow. “Maud Stafford? The house she left Paul Stafford, sir.”

“You have the address?” Cowley asked as he closed the file in front of him. Paul Stafford had left very little evidence of his personal life and they’d had to dig deep to find it. 

“Yes sir,” Murphy rifled through the stack to find the right piece of paper. “It’s been empty for quite some time. The old dear used to go game hunting in her young years before turning to conservation. She lived to quite an age.”

“Alert the met, the local boys can meet us there,” Cowley said as he stood up and picked up his jacket. “Whether those two are there or not, the house may give us some clue as to where Stafford might have taken them.”

He switched off the light and closed the door to his office. Five minutes later, his private phone line began to ring.

 

***

 

Bodie cursed as the phone rang out and consulted his watch again. It was late and Cowley had left. He dare not waste any more time. Jumping back into the hearse he carried on until he reached Richmond and cruised down several streets near the river trying to guess the layout of the house as he knew it from the inside. It was a frustrating search, the river side properties he encountered were set back too far, bordered by parkland, or apartment blocks and he was hindered by the encroaching night which cut visibility. Crossing a small tributary, he thought he was in an area that looked more promising. Doyle had told him the concert was an all night event, so he stopped periodically to close his eyes, listening for the music, trying to recall the volume as he’d heard it that afternoon. He could hear quite it clearly now, too clearly. He was too close. Getting back into the vehicle, he drove on several more streets before getting out again. This time he couldn’t hear the music at all. Temper surging he got back in the car and did a u-turn. 

The river sat on a bend just here and Bodie slowed down as a marked police car came towards him. The police car turned down a narrow side street and Bodie, acting on impulse, instinctively followed it. The police car would have a radio, he’d be able to organise a search without getting held up with a switchboard operator. A house loomed up in the darkness, forbidding, silent and the police car stopped in front of it. A torch flicked on and aimed out of the window onto the structure. Bodie leaned out of his window and heard the music, rising and falling with the faint breeze. He closed his eyes and the pitch was the same. This was it, it had to be. The police were here, somehow Cowley must have figured it out. 

Alighting from the hearse he found himself face to face with a young uniformed policeman. The officer looked at the hearse pointedly and then back at Bodie. “Do you have business here sir?”

His ID was still in his pocket and Bodie quickly held it up for inspection. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mob instructed us to turn up at this address and wait,” the constable said, but Bodie had heard enough. The Thames was full, the tide pushing salt water as far as it could and there was no sign of Doyle. He’d obviously been unable to free himself and Bodie felt denial flood him, fierce and gut wrenching, utterly sick at the thought that he was he too late. And if, by some miracle he wasn’t too late, he was damn well too close. A vision of himself, sprawled across the top of Doyle’s cage, hands desperately cradling his partners face, holding him up against the bars to gasp the last of the precious air before waters closed over his head, had him running full tilt to the front entrance, the young policeman following. He needed something…something to help Doyle breathe till they could break him out of his prison. What though? He glanced feverishly around looking for the means. The smell of the garden assaulted him, overgrown beds, warm earth, flowers and inspiration struck.

“Find a garden hose,” he ordered, and his voice wobbled, just fractionally as it hit him, full force in the solar plexus, that he may not be in time to use it, that Doyle, even now may be floating ghost like in the cold water, eyes sightless and staring. “Cut me off a length, say 15 to 20 inches.”

The house was very large and Bodie, furiously impatient, raised a foot and kicked solidly at the door. It held and he kicked again, putting all his force behind it. The lock cracked, splintering on the third kick and he used his shoulder to force it the rest of the way.

The interior was mostly in darkness, but he instantly recognised the entry way from that afternoon. Torn between relief at finding the right house and anxiety over Doyle he waited for a fraction of a second, listening intently, not knowing if Bellamy was still on guard or not, but knowing if he was, he would have heard the noise of the door being forced. Fear over Doyle’s fate tempted him into carelessness, to run the gauntlet, help his partner.

 _You can’t help me if you’re dead, mate._

Bodie took a breath and steadied himself, willing his heart to stop pounding, the anguish governing his mind to clear. The faint murmur of a television and a dull light came from the rear of the house. Stafford’s gun in his hand, he made his way carefully towards the light, recognising the hallway as leading to the kitchen. 

At each doorway, he was forced to stop and follow basic procedures to ascertain the room was empty and not having Doyle at his back while he performed these basic manoeuvres was like missing a limb. He was near the kitchen when he sensed a presence and ducked instinctively, the reflex action saving his life, a string of bullets tearing into the plaster where his torso had just been. Quickly he crawled into the closest room and rose up beside the door frame, gun in hand, pulse racing. He didn’t have time for this, this cat and mouse game. Not when Doyle was drowning in that blasted cage. 

“It’s over Bellamy,” he roared into the house. “The police are here, CI5 are onto you, you’d be better giving yourself up.”

Silence predictably greeted that statement and frustrated Bodie waited, chafing at the delay. “Stafford’s dead Bellamy, no one is going to be paying you.”

Listening intently, he heard a very soft creak of an old floorboard and sprang out of hiding, straight into a hard powerful body. Bellamy, taken by surprise grunted at the impact but rallied effectively, trying to bring up the assault rifle in order to use it. Bodie kicked out, knocked the weapon from his hands and brought his own gun up, but Bellamy was quick enough to grip his wrist with one hand and level a punch to his stomach with the other. They staggered towards the kitchen, neither getting the upper hand. Bodie rocked Bellamy’s head back with a lucky uppercut to the jaw but Bellamy was stronger, or at least equal to Bodie and held on. The gun came up, slowly but surely between them. Stalemate. 

He was about to yell for the police outside, when Bellamy suddenly stopped fighting. Bodie caught a very strong scent of river water just as the big man jarred against him and stiffened, hands loosening on the Webley, mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish gasping for air. His eyes locked on Bodie, stunned, disbelieving, slowly his knees gave way and he fell, gracefully for a big man, to the floor. Breathing hard, Bodie took a firm grip on the revolver and looked down. The handle of a sharp kitchen knife jutted from his back, a spreading red stain marking the accuracy of the throw. He looked up startled, just in time to see a wet, bedraggled, half drowned, shivering figure slide down the wall to sit in a ghostly heap on the floor. Behind him lights came on, and the police were there, truncheons in hands, a full garden hose trailing behind like a long green snake.

Relief surged through Bodie, enough to make his knees tremble and he leaned against the wall for support as he fiercely surveyed his partner. “You call that back up?”

A hot, green blue gaze seared him with a feverish glare in return. “You call that a rescue?” 

He watched as Doyle coughed, the spasm shaking his shivering frame, then gave up retaliating and simply closed his eyes, cradling his mangled right arm against his chest and it was then that Bodie realised Doyle had thrown the knife with his left hand. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to Doyle’s hardworking guardian angel, he dropped to his knees beside his partner, stripping off his jacket to drape it around the shivering body. 

“Easy, sunshine,” he murmured as Doyle’s trembling increased, eliciting a small moan of distress. The policemen hovered uncertainly and Bodie, giving his partner a quick once over, roared, “Get an ambulance.”

***

 

George Cowley arrived to find the house ablaze with light, a marked police car complete with flashing red and blue in the street and incongruously, a hearse behind it, parked half across the driveway. Over the growing volume of more sirens, his ears picked up a voice, hard and street smart, laced with pain and his feet followed it, arriving in time to see his alleged top agents staggering out of the wrecked front door. Bodie was supporting his partner, almost carrying him, ignoring all protests with selectively deaf ears. Doyle was soaked and shivering and his arm looked like it had been through a mincer, but he was walking on his own two feet, for which Cowley was immensely grateful. Murphy came up alongside him just as Doyle stopped, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the majestic black hearse blocking the gates.

“Bit premature aren’t you?” he asked pointedly, sliding an artfully contrived look of hurt sideways to his partner.

“Never heard any complaints from the birds,” Bodie replied primly, his arm tightening around Doyle’s body, feeling the tremors increasing, buffeted by the breeze from the river.

“Oh?” Doyle sniffed and hunched his shoulders, before leaning into his partner’s warmth, finally allowing the help. “What about the boys then?”

Cowley interrupted what promised to be a long exchange of insults and repartee.

 

***

After the ambulance departed, Cowley detoured back to headquarters to deal with the inevitable clean up, including queries from the police at Windsor, unhappy at a body being left in one of their cemeteries. Although, Cowley thought privately, what better place to leave it? The theft of the hearse took a bit more soothing and it was some considerable time before he was able to get to the hospital himself, anxious over the new injury to his operative’s arm. He arrived just as a sedated Doyle was wheeled from theatre and transferred to a private ward, the arm expertly realigned and reset. 

He handed a cup of machine dispensed coffee to the conscious member of his team, along with a basilisk look. “This could have been avoided Bodie, if you’d confided in me.”

“Sorry sir,” Bodie replied automatically, weary to the point of exhaustion.

“You’re no such thing,” Cowley snapped, irritably. “The day you are ever sorry for something you do is the day I hand in my resignation and retire.”

He glared at his unrepentant agent for a minute, before realising that Bodie was done in, sprawled in an untidy heap in a chair by his partner’s bedside. “Doyle will make a full recovery. I’ll see you for a full report first thing in the morning, go home and get some rest.” 

Bodie didn’t bother replying as Cowley left him, alone in the ward His thoughts were dwelling, far too late, on what could have been, had things not been broken such a long time ago. If Stafford hadn’t had such a hard job to do, if he’d been a shopkeeper for instance, or a baker, would he have found his taste for cruelty? To maim with sanction? It was such a fine line to tread, what they did. So easy to topple over, so easy to fall into darkness. It could have just as easily been him and the thought, horrifying, inconceivable, had sobered him completely. It could have been him slip into madness, not Stafford. 

They’d been so alike, united in the job they did and yet Stafford had broken, lost his focus, unable to stay sane in their insane world, while Bodie was still going. Still doing unpleasant things for Queen and country and still comparatively sound. But then, he acknowledged wryly, his gaze shifting to the still form in the bed, Stafford didn’t have a walking, talking conscience, like he did. And speaking of walking, talking consciences… 

Doyle stirred slightly, moving his arm restlessly against the white hospital linen and Bodie’s eyes were distracted by the brand new cast, fresh as a clean sheet of paper. His mouth twitched just slightly.

The scratching of the pen must have penetrated because a sleep husky voice queried testily, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing sunshine, nothing,” Bodie soothed. “Go back to sleep.”

But his partner’s frown had already smoothed out, his breathing deep, lashes black against pale cheekbones as drug induced dreams claimed him. Bodie leaned back to admire his work, deeply satisfied. 

 

***

 

**Chapter 16**

 

The chaperone duty of an American senator had run into overtime, and Bodie barely had time to collect the chinese, pick up some beer and battle the traffic before the match started. The brief spell of warm weather had given way to a determined early Autumn, and the air was quite cool. He wound the window up against its chill, the aroma of fried rice and Peking duck permeating the car, reminding him in no uncertain terms that he had skipped lunch. Arriving at Doyle’s he was let in with an irritated, “you’re late,” before settling down at the coffee table and switching the box on. 

Glancing over now as the final whistle went; he had to smile at the sight of his partner, sound asleep on the settee, smothered in a warm cloud of menthol, long denim clad legs tucked under a patchwork blanket. Just short of pneumonia, the doctors had said and Doyle’s racking cough and heavy breathing certainly gave credence to the diagnosis. Prone to ongoing sleepiness from the illness, and tetchy with the eternal itching under the new plaster cast on his right arm, he’d been banished to bed rest, something he both needed and typically rebelled against. 

The television screen switched to the half hour post analysis of the game but Bodie was in no hurry to move. Comfortably sprawled in the armchair, he turned down the volume, content to sit and listen to Doyle’s wheezy breathing while he finished his beer. Adjusting his position, a crackling sound from inside his jacket recalled him to the letter Betty had handed him on his way out, accompanied by a stern instruction to clear his pigeon hole more frequently. Unhurriedly, he pulled it out, eyes noting the colourful Australian stamps in the corner, and the firm, but feminine handwriting addressing the front. Careful not to wake Doyle, he slid his thumb under the flap, levering it open. The paper was plain with faint blue lines across it, the same feminine handwriting covering it. 

 

_My dear Will._

_Reading your letter was perhaps the hardest thing I have ever done. I knew that you would never risk my safety by contacting me, until the day that it was no longer necessary to safeguard it, and the arrival of your letter gave me in equal measure, both great sorrow and great relief. I loved him dearly, as you know, but whatever twisted inside him, that madness that took hold of him and turned him into a cruel stranger was responsible for his death, not you. Never you, my dear friend._

_I also want to thank you for your kind offer, but I do not wish to return to England. Helen Stafford died the day you put us on the train to Southampton and I am well established in the new identity you arranged for us both. Your godson is also settled into his life here and we are happy._

_If you are ever in Adelaide, please look us up. But in the meantime, thank you again for all you’ve done for us._

_With love and best wishes_

_Shirley Jackson_

 

Bodie folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket before leaning back in his chair pensively. Two innocent lives lost for two lives saved. He glanced at his partner. And it could have been three, very easily. Bodie wasn’t sorry. 

Doyle coughed in his sleep, a racking harsh sound that half woke him, and he turned onto his side, settling back down into the blankets. From long habit, Bodie turned to watch him; until he was sure he was sleeping peacefully again. Doyle always looked very young asleep, deceptively vulnerable but Bodie knew better. Tough as old boots was Ray Doyle and no better man to have at your back, broken arm or not. He took another mouthful from the can in his hand, drowsily content to watch his partner, whole and alive, shadows dancing across his face from the flickering television screen, highlighting the cast encasing his right arm, the plaster pristine white - except for a set of words written in blue ink by a strong hand. 

_Repetitious use of your right hand can cause complications._

 

Bodie smiled.

***

Jaicen5 

With thanks to:

CI5mates  
PMGMS  
ILWB

For their endless patience, encouragement, beta and specialist help.

And to Lorraine Brevig for the absolute stunning artwork.


End file.
